


Contra Naturam

by snaxarba (orphan_account)



Series: Tomarry Works [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Murder, Obsession, Possessive Tom Riddle, Professor Harry Potter, Psychosis, Rape, Sexual Torture, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Student Tom Riddle, Teacher Harry Potter, Teenage Tom Riddle, Threats, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 15:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12656310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/snaxarba
Summary: That’s how sixteen year olds are supposed to act, Harry thought. What went wrong with Tom?PLEASE DO NOT READ IF SENSITIVE TO ANY OF THE THINGS MENTIONED ABOVE[Abandoned]





	1. Contra Naturam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sovietghoststories (lucid_lies)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucid_lies/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Webs We Weave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/361904) by [Canis Major (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Canis%20Major). 



> This is a work that I have picked up from another author. The original title is "The Webs We Weave" and I've transported the first chapter onto here. It's a very good story and I want to thank the author for letting me pick it up.
> 
> I seem to only be interested in dark Tomarry fics haha. Also, in my psyche class, we've moved on from Psychopaths and Mental illnesses to criminology! Yay! I've picked Abuse of Power and Rape as my assignment topic and it's been a blast so far. I mean, I'm so paranoid right now that I wrote this instead of doing my work!
> 
> Lemme know what you think!

 

Chapter One

Contra Naturam

 

_Thrust._

"S-stop it! What do you think you're _doing_ …?”

Harry squirmed, vainly trying to loosen the tight grip that held his hips down. His verdant eyes filled with tears and he painfully arched back against the classroom's floor, one of his best students roughly fucking him into the cold tiles.

"Ugh! Don't! Ah - ah…”

Harry whimpered in pain, his throat hoarse from all the screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut when the hard cock brutally assaulted his prostate, sticky tears sliding down his flushed cheeks. It hurt so much; he just wanted it all to stop. This was not how it was supposed to be.

His hands blindly searched for something to grasp, anything to distract himself from the constant throb in his arse. A faint chuckle sounded from above him at his pitiful attempt and in retaliation, Harry grasped the broad shoulders, digging blunt nails into the skin and drawing blood.

"Tom!" he sobbed. "Please, stop!"

Tom did not care, ignoring Harry completely. If anything, his thrusts grew harsher, hips canting forwards violently. Tom's cock brutally assaulted Harry's insides, tearing into the delicate flesh. When would this torture end?

"Do not tell _me_ what to do," Tom hissed, garnet eyes narrowed at his teacher. "I will do whatever I damn well please," - _Thrust_ \- ", and there is absolutely nothing _you_ can do to stop me!"

Harry wailed, body shivering in disgust as Tom thrust in one more time before coming violently. Instantly it felt like he was burning up from the inside out, the come mixing with his blood as it slipped out of his body and ran down his thighs.

Every time he closed his eyes, Harry saw Tom's satisfied, hard eyes looking down at him. The bastard was pleased that he had won. His stomach churned and he was afraid he would lose his lunch. How could someone be so cruel as to be happy about rape? It was just inhuman – Tom was inhuman, a beast wearing human skin and he had been the lamb set out for slaughter.

Harry felt the telltale pinpricks of water building up behind his eyes and he distantly heard a part of himself shatter into millions of tiny pieces. He felt so dirty, so used, so fucking _ugly_.

Tom sneered and roughly pulled out without remorse. Dark delight zipped through him like lightening when Harry winced at the abrupt departure, his possessive, greedy expression only growing in intensity when he took in his teacher's appearance. He could not help but appraise his handiwork; all of it was because of him, Tom Marvolo Riddle. His chest swelled up like a balloon. The unruly hair, flushed cheeks, and beautifully _broken_ green eyes.

Eyes that Tom wanted to own more than anything else in the whole world. Never again would they look at anyone else, he would not allow it. He would make sure from this day forward that Harry looked at him and him only. If they ever did stray, well, Tom might just have to cut them out of Harry's pretty little head. He was downright dreadful when it came to sharing his property and he refused to let his possessions go awry.

Whether Harry liked it or not, he was Tom's now – had been from the moment the teen had spotted him all those years ago. He would be his repeatedly, with or without consent. However, as Tom took in those beautiful eyes and noticed that they had lost their fighting shine, he figured it would not be a future issue. His Harry had finally lost all foolish hopes of ever escaping.

He was glad Harry had finally realized he was caught in the spider's sticky web.

Everything was going according to plan. Soon, very soon, everything would fall into place and Tom would have what he wanted – utterly and completely. He would make sure of it. A self-satisfied grin spread across his face at the thought.

Standing up, Tom buckled his trousers before smoothing out his rumpled clothing. After checking that his appearance was impeccable, he shot his teacher another dark look.

"I'll see you on Monday," Tom purred, leaning down. Ignoring Harry's flinch, Tom stole a harsh, unforgiving kiss. The lips under his were unresponsive. Rage exploded in his chest and he raised a hand. How dare he – Tom stopped.

Suddenly, his lips quirked into a cruel smile – one much like a cat that caught the canary. The hand that was about to slap Harry relaxed and long fingers moved down to gently slide across a tear-stained cheek.

"Harry, Harry, Harry. Foolish little Harry, do you really think that anyone would believe you?" Tom asked, caresses mockingly gentle. "It's your word against mine, Harry. And, forgive me if I'm being a bit presumptuous; however, I'm inclined to suspect that they will end up believing me: the poor, unfortunate orphan who was preyed upon. Don't you agree?"

Harry turned fearful eyes upwards, staring at Tom in unconcealed horror.

"That's right. Now, be a good boy and be sure not to tell anyone. We wouldn't want any unfortunate accidents, now would we?"

Harry frantically nodded. His bottom lip trembled and his eyes watered anew. He did not want to know what Tom would do to anyone who found out. The boy seemed to have no limits. Harry would not be surprised if he actually would kill someone – it was all there in his cold, cruel garnet gaze. They told Harry that Tom was capable of anything.

Satisfied with his answer, Tom pulled away.

"Your attitude had better improve by Monday; I'm rather disappointed with you."

Giving Harry another long look, Tom turned around and walked out of the room, leaving Harry behind on the floor alone, defeated, and covered in come.


	2. Hatred

Chapter Two

Hatred

 

Harry couldn’t look at anyone in the eye anymore. He was careful not to touch others, unless it was deemed absolutely necessary. His hands trembled at more often than not - he hadn’t really grasped the situation he was in just yet.

Tom Riddle. He shuddered. Tom happened to be the one student that Harry had trusted to do the right thing when he was away from class. He respected Tom’s inquisitive nature and his brains. Harry had been fond of Tom in the way that a teacher might favour one's student more. But he never thought it to be like this.

His insides were coiling. Every time he made eye contact with those unrepentant eyes, Harry finds himself at more of a loss than most. The cold, hard floor; the hot, slick tears running down his face; the demolition of his spirit as sharp eyes pinned him down and plundered him. Harry couldn’t help but feel terribly sullied and ashamed. _He had let it happen_.

If only he was strong enough, if only he had been more _forceful_ and _adamant_ in his rejection. If only he never had come to teaching Tom Riddle. Harry was haunted all throughout the weekends.

_“I’ll see you on Monday.”_

He had to come back and teach on Monday. Tom was going to be there, last period of the day. Tom was going to repeat what he did last time. Harry’s heart beat faster with fear and pain. Everything hurt that day - his heart, his body, his _soul_ \- everything was destroyed. Crumbling around him like a house of cards from a gust of wind.

Harry almost loathed himself for it. He hated, but not quite up to loathing just yet. He couldn’t get rid of the dark currant eyes; the triumph that glinted in them, reflecting madness and sadistic glee at the look of Harry’s corrupted state. He couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t forget the pain that tore him in two. Couldn’t help but feel betrayed by Tom.

He thought it was all a childish game. Tom had an unhealthy obsession with Harry, he knew that much. He’d often have the boy coming first into his class and last out of it, always lingering and always doing increasingly drastic things in front of Harry. He thought it was just that Tom wanted the attention, so Harry gave it to him. Until the student kissed the teacher.

It was hot, harsh and unexpected. Harry did not respond, he stilled and after a while, he gently pushed Tom away. That was not received well. Harry fought Tom’s advances, every time. He didn’t know why last time the student got to him. Why he had managed to dirty Harry even more than he thought possible. Riddle finally got a hold of Harry’s heart - but in fear instead of love. Harry would never be able to look at Tom without revulsion, hatred and dread.

Harry had burned the shirt and trousers he wore that day. He had scrubbed his skin raw underneath scalding water to rid of the filthy, tarnished, impure skin; to rid of Tom Riddle’s touch from himself. He cut his hair shorter, remembering how Tom would run his hair through it. Or when he had yanked it back when he was being mercilessly raped. Harry had also stopped wearing tee shirts, afraid that fading bruises there would be known by anyone - even if it was summer.

What was it about Harry that had caught the attention of the devil himself? There was nothing special about him, nothing overly great. But he cursed himself all the same, and more so to Tom. Choose somebody else that was worthy of his attention! Don’t choose regular Harry! He realised how selfish and despicable it was to wish his torments upon somebody else, but he wasn’t going to care. _He has been living in Hell since his childhood_. He deserved a break, not have the spawn of Satan pillage through his virtues.

Sitting in his kitchen with a mug of tea between his cold, trembling hands, Harry began to pull out papers. He needed to grade them before Christmas. It would be bad if he didn’t finish them as the holidays came up.

 

 _Don’t think about him, don’t think about him_ , was Harry’s mantra for his class. Tom sat in his usual spot; the front, left-hand side of the room, close to Harry’s desk. It was good that the rest of the class were notoriously loud and kept Harry’s attention at the troublemakers rather than obedient, _sweet_ , _smart_ Tom.

A bang resounded in the class and Harry took a long, suffering breath. “Crouch.” He said in a strong, clipped tone. “Don’t tease Mr. Malfoy. Put that chair back up before I give you detention.” Harry wished the detentions were kept with him instead of handing it over to Ginevra Weasley. She loved pulling out methods to ensure students would be kept in line. If he had detention with a student, then maybe he would be able to evade Tom.

 _Not likely_ , Harry’s thoughts pierced him. _He would maybe rape you in front of the students, further humiliate you_. His blood ran cold at the thought and his hand shook, faltering a little as he wrote on the blackboard.

“But sir,” Crouch Jr.’s voice led Harry to turn around. “It was Malfoy’s fault. I did nothing, he’s pinning it on me!”

“Mr. Crouch, I assure you that Mr. Malfoy would not be able to turn over a chair next to you when he’s on the other side of the room.” Harry caught a flash of garnet eyes, but promptly ignored it. “Pick it back up and do your work.”

“You always take Malfoy’s side! Or Riddle! Is it because they’re good-looking? Are you a per -”

Harry smiled condescendingly, thoroughly amused. “No, Mr. Crouch. It’s because they’re sensible and have brains.” - _well, at least Malfoy is sensible. Tom is evil_ \- “If it’s looks you’re worried about, then rest assured that you are not the most unfortunate looking male in this school. I would rather you use your time now to work and not whine over vanities.”

“Yes, sir.” Crouch Jr. mumbled petulantly, like a child.

 _That’s how sixteen year olds are supposed to act_ , Harry thought. _What went wrong with Tom?_

The class stayed like that, with set work on the board and students doing them whilst chatting away with their friends. Every now and then, Harry was called upon to help said student. It was terribly boring, being a teacher, but Harry loved it. Of course, his safe space would not continue forever.

When the clock struck three, the bell ringing, indicating home time, nausea settled back into his stomach again. Students were clamouring to get out of the class, unable to contain their excitement at being able to go home. The exception being Tom Riddle.

“Curious,” Tom drawled. “How time passes by when you’re having… _fun_.”

“Tom,” Harry shook. “Tom, you don’t have to do this.”

The coldness crept back in his veins again; his limbs frozen to the spot and his verdant eyes widened in terror. Tom - with his beautiful pale skin, his mysterious red glare and his tidy, black hair - sauntered gracefully to where Harry stood at the archway of the door. He was taller than Harry, about half a head taller. His hand reached back round the shorter man and closed the door with a soft _click_.

Harry trembled as he heard an additional click that was louder. The lock. Tom had locked the door and trapped Harry inside with a demon.

“Remember what I said about having improved your attitude, _Professor_ ,” he said low in Harry’s ear.

His fingers, long and thin, brushed past Harry’s sleeve and resting themselves along Harry’s throat, lightly pressing them. Harry knew what to do; he bared his throat over to Riddle, resignation in his heart. His head felt heavy with the knowledge of what happened last time and what was bound to happen this time. His heart raced, threatening to break out of his ribcage.

“That’s better,” he hummed, his hot breath ghosting over Harry’s trembling form. “So much _better_.”

Harry snapped out of his stupor. He met garnet eyes and shuddered involuntarily. “Tom,” he whispered. “Don’t do this. _Please_.”

“No, no,” he crooned, “that won’t do. Don’t you see Harry? You have _no say in this_.”

 _I’m well aware of that_. But kept his mouth shut.

“And unless you want something… terrible to happen, you shall not defy me of what’s mine.”

What was more terrible than the thought of your own student - and one of the very best - to suddenly turn on you, claim you and used you. Rape was not a beautiful thing, nor shall it be held so in anyone’s eyes. It was unfair, and hurts the victims both physically and psychologically. It degraded one’s self esteem and traumatises them beyond imagination. Almost as if they had been forced to kill.

But Tom Riddle was an exception. Always had been.

Harry looked pleadingly at Tom’s smug gaze, but the fortitude was plain. His filthy hand came to wrap around Harry’s throat. He flexed his fingers before pressing them down. It was a tiny pressure, but it made Harry flinch. The predatory look in Tom’s eyes gave him a shudder of fear and revulsion - slight and frosty.

“I wonder,” Tom mused, “if you’re one to be aroused in women’s clothing.”

Verdant eyes widened. “No.” Harry said harshly in retaliation. The fingers tightened their hold. “Tom, no, please.”

“Harrison James Potter,” Tom pushed Harry onto the door. “You will obey what I say lest something awful happens. Losing your job may not be the end of it. You must _love_ the Weasley family, hmm?”

Harry’s breathing spiked, one hand clutching Tom’s wrist whilst the other pressed on the wood of the door behind him. Why would Tom mention the Weasleys?

“Get on my desk, Professor. I have a surprise for you.” He ordered. His hand moved to grab onto Harry’s arms and thrusted Harry to the direction of Tom’s desk. Harry stumbled, his hand gripping onto the side of tables and his shin bumped into the metal leg of a chair; pain flared up where he banged his flesh. He cursed inwardly before stiffly approaching Riddle’s desk.

He stared hard at the surface of the table. “Well come on, Harry,” a soft voice coaxed him from behind. Harry startled. “Get on it.”

He sat on the table, his leg still touching the floor and his eyes cast down.

“Look at you,” Tom said gleefully, his fingers grasping Harry’s chin and wrenching his face up to Tom’s. “Looking so demure, my pure, pure professor.”

 _Stop_ , he willed Tom in his mind. His dirty fingers were touching him again, soiling his skin and staining it like black tar. Those sinful fingers reached around to the back of his head, carding through Harry’s shorter hair. _STOP_.

Then his lips descended upon Harry’s. He kept his eyes open, seeing the verdant clash with garnet. Harry’s lips were frozen, unmoving as Tom moulded his own against Harry’s. He pulled back, disappointment and rage in his eyes, before a resounding crack came down on his face. He stumbled back on the desk, his hand gripping the edges and the other reached up to cradle his cheek.

“Don’t be so surprised, Harry.” Tom said mockingly. “You know the consequences that I give out to bad boys. Foolish little Harry. You think you’ll just sit there like a mannequin while I make love to you?”

 _‘Make love’_ , Harry almost spat. Rape was not ‘making love’. Plundering a teacher’s body without their consent was not in any way ‘making love’. It was a despicable act. So, so bad. Harry tried to keep his tears inside of his eyes.

“I want you to respond - you _will_ respond.”

He grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair - _not short enough,_ Harry thought - and pulled it back so his eyes were only looking at Tom’s handsome face. His breath was sweet and heady and so very, very sick to Harry. His touch burned like hot iron, like torture. His eyes drilled holes into Harry’s. A psychopath or a sociopath?

Those lips came crashing down on Harry’s again. And this time, Tom’s hand was on Harry’s jaw, forcing a reaction from him. Harry moved his lips according to what Tom wanted, but it was too rough, too unpredictable. His lips bled from the impact and their kisses were tainted with a metallic tang as Tom raped his mouth with his tongue.

Wandering hands unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, leaving the cold to pierce his bared skin. A guttural sort of groan came from Tom as he pulled back, shoving the garments from Harry’s body and divesting him of any clothing. Harry felt the sharpness of the cold more than ever with the Christmas air almost settling over them.

Harry wanted to scream for Tom to stop, but he didn’t. Instead, he watched as Tom took a bag and his hand delved inside it. Out came two white stockings, a pair of frilly panties and a satiny sort of dress that shouldn’t be put on a man.

The stockings slipped smoothly against the skin of his legs, making it look as if his legs went on and on.

“Get your pants off.”

Harry’s shaking hands moved to his waistband. But he was deemed too slow and Tom grabbed the material, bunching it up before pushing it down his thighs and off his legs. He shoved Harry back and pulled on the lacy panties over his naked legs and cock. Patting the flaccid member, Tom smirked.

“I think you’ll only be dressed like this. We’ll use the dress for next time.”

 _Next time?_ Harry’s breath hitched, his face crumpled and silent streams of tears cascaded down his cheeks. Tom’s fingers caught the moisture.

“You’re so beautiful when you cry.”

Harry’s blood boiled. “You’re sick,” his voice cracked. “You’re _disgusting_.”

He received another blow. Harry clenched his eyes shut, the tears not stopping once they fell. He hated himself, he hated Tom, he hated the Principal, he hated his work. He hated, hated, and hated.

Then, he was flung to the ground, lifted up and his head banged against the surface of Tom’s desk. Harry saw stars and hoped that he would pass out so he wouldn’t have to feel the pain, the humiliation and the unfairness of it all.

“Shut up, Harry.” Tom snarled in his ear.

Harry struggled, he didn’t like pain - he didn’t want anymore, no more, _no more_.

It was a little redundant to have put the panties on Harry, because Tom had pulled them down, leaving Harry’s arse for him to inspect. Tom pinned him down, his arms holding Harry’s in place. There was an uncomfortable twinge between his shoulders that would grow should he move the wrong way.

“I thought I’ve already subdued this little rebellious streak of yours.”

Then, all too soon, Harry felt the unfamiliar hardness against his hole.

“No! Tom - no, stop! TOM!” Harry screamed as the unrelenting erection breached, tore and split him open. He felt fire from his stomach and nausea. His head was spinning and the tears flowed more freely, down his face, dripping from his chin and onto the desk below.

Tom laughed delightedly and smacked Harry across his bum, causing more pain.

“Oh… you sound so good screaming my name,” he sighed.

Harry sobbed, his shoulders tense and his forehead on the smooth, wooden desk. Agony laced his very being and not once did he ever got hard. Everything was just painful and unpleasant. The tantalisingly sweet smell triggered him and sent another wave of nausea. It was so sick.

He began to really thrust. Harry kept on screaming, crying, calling out for a help that would never come to him. He felt blood trickle from between his legs, spidering a web of sanguine down the white of the stockings. Everything was tearing him up from the inside.

Tom pulled out, flipping him over and throwing Harry’s legs over his shoulders. Harry could see the red splotches on the cloth, staining it, tainting it, filthy _,_ filthy _, filthy_ \- he vaguely wondered how the blood would be cleaned out from the white. He remembered what his godfather had said to him about bloodstains; they were dastardly hard to get out, especially when already drying and on white. The result of trying to wash it would be staining it orange.

Currant blazing eyes wolfed down the broken state of his teacher. Tom had never felt so powerful, so pleased, so utterly in control of another person before. It fed his hunger for more. He burned the sight of Harry’s nude body into his brain, drinking in every curve, dip and plane of the smooth skin. He loved the way Harry’s eyes shone bright every time. _That’s because of me_ , he thought.

Pressing in once more, watching Harry flinch and try to push Tom’s body away, he forced his way in, relishing in the cries of pain that Harry emitted. It was like music; grating on his nerves, causing goosebumps to rise from his skin and a roll of excitement was deep in his belly. There was something pleasurable in the bloodcurdling screams that Harry gave.

“Tom! Please - ugh! - please, stop!”

Tom never stopped. He kept going, even when those nails gripped his biceps and dug in. It hurt, but he knew that Harry would be in more pain. Physical pain was one thing, but Tom wanted to see those green eyes cloud in ecstasy, knowing full well of what’s happening, be disgusted and still be enjoying Tom’s imposed perversion. He wanted Harry to submit himself into the pleasure of being with Tom.

He took Harry’s flaccid member in hand; and started stroking.

Harry’s eyes widened, the shape of his own penis forming into a more phallic state.

“No! No!” Harry yelled. “No! Tom! STOP!”

It was a wonder how he could still yell with how sore his throat was. It was even more puzzling as to why nobody had heard him yet. Tom never stopped. His hand jerking Harry off, his own cock burying itself into Harry’s raw hole and his back arched off the desk, the back of his hips digging painfully into the edge.

Tom thrusted harder, faster, more erratic. His breathing was harsh and quick; his lips catching onto Harry’s neck and sucking hard, marking him red and purple. Smug satisfaction was painted across his features. Harry wanted to die. He tried to push Riddle, but it was so very hard to do so. Tom kept his assault, and Harry just wanted to burn up and die.

Heat engulfed Harry, licking up his chest, neck and ears. And horrifyingly, it wasn’t a bad type of heat. It was almost pleasurable.

“Come on, Professor,” Tom whispered harshly into his ear. “Come for me, Harry.”

His hands flew about, one gripping a hard edge for dear life and the other raking itself down Tom’s naked back. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. But at the same time; it was so, so nice. It was _wrong_. The fire shifted into somewhere between pleasure and pain in his guts, coiling his muscles around and tensing it further before Harry snapped.

He was humiliated.

Ropes of white, sticky substance laced themselves onto Harry’s tummy, his chest and up to his collarbone. His face burned in the filth he had become. This… this misdeed, this evil, this iniquity. Tom was immoral and a monster. Harry was caught up in the web he weaved. He didn’t even know. Everything was falling apart. His whole life was falling apart.

“You say I’m sick,” Tom said, his finger dipping into spilt cum and bringing it to Harry’s lips. “But you must be even more sick to have gotten pleasure out of _that_.” He pressed his fingers inside of Harry’s hot mouth and grinned.

Harry tasted his own essence - disgusting, salty and bitter. He turned his face away, but not before he saw the gratification in Tom’s carefully sculpted face. He wanted to kill himself.

“Go and get dressed. It has been fun, Harry. We’ll do this again with other games to play.”

With his whole body on fire, his tears renewed and crumpling to the ground, Tom left him again. He tucked himself in, smoothing his hair and shirt, then gave a chaste peck on Harry’s cherry lips. It almost made Harry laugh in hysteria, but he didn’t. Instead, he laid there; heaped and useless. Everything was cold. Tom’s hands were hot against his cold skin. Harry hated everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I doing this right? Am I writing things that are good enough? Are any of my works good enough???


	3. Duende

 

Chapter Three

Duende

 

_2 years ago_

 

The rumour that Professor Merrythought had retired was indeed true. Tom would have to thank Abraxas for the prior knowledge, but that was not how he went by. Tom Riddle does not ‘thank’ anyone sincerely. They were reserved for the adults and other teachers who did not know Tom’s other side.

There was already a replacement for Merrythought. Who it was, Tom did not know - none of his followers knew. In fact, none of the school knew except for the teachers and the Principal. Two weeks went by with Professor Driver teaching them as substitute. Driver was a fool who was too egocentric with himself and his knowledge on the subject (which wasn’t much). Tom wished that Merrythought had stayed, at least she knew what she was doing.

Then, on a particularly frosty Monday afternoon, their last lesson for the day, came a man. He had messy hair the colour of black ink, and bright green eyes hidden behind horrid round spectacles. He smiled and Tom noticed the pink tinge to the man’s cheeks. He was certainly very attractive.

Of course, Tom did not judge from their covers too deeply. Professor Driver had been attractive as well, much to the delight of the girls in his class, with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He proved to be absolutely bollocks at the one subject he claimed to be profound at.

“Hello class, please take your seats,” he said. His voice was low and incredibly soft. It was like if you had brushed a dark, fluffy duvet. Despite the hardness of the man’s stance and looking somewhat unapproachable, he had a very kind voice.

The class assumed their normal seating. There was no arrangement to their tables, but there was an unspoken rule that once somebody’s claimed a desk, that was theirs for the rest of the term. As usual, Tom sat in the very front desk, next to the teacher’s. Merrythought had been a very good companion as in that she never talked to Tom unless absolutely necessary.

“I believe introductions are in order,” the man rose to his full height. He left his post from leaning against the blackboard and stood in the middle. “My name is Professor Potter, I am your teacher and replacement for Professor Merrythought.”

A hand rose up. Tom didn’t have to look to know it was that insufferable girl, Lavender Brown. She always did this with handsome teachers that suited her liking. Apparently Professor Potter happened to be one of them. Silently, Tom was sorry for the teacher.

“Yes, Miss…?”

“Lavender Brown, sir,” her giggly voice irked him. “I was just wondering if you are going to be our teacher for the rest of the year? Or will you be substituting like Professor Driver?”

“I will be in this post for as long as I desire, Miss Brown,” Professor Potter said with a small smile. Looking around the class, he took the roll call.

“Arabella Banks.”

“Present.”

“Phoebe Bright.”

“Here.”

“Peter Cauley.”

“Yep.”

The roll went on, going over almost all the students before it came to Tom’s name.

“Thomas Riddle.”

“Present, sir.”

“Riddle?” he questioned, glancing up from the roll.

Tom felt a stone dropping in his stomach. Here was the moment that every new teacher did, where they recognise the name, look at Tom, ask if there was any relation to Sir Tom Riddle Sr. and see the uncanny resemblance with his neglectful father. The father who refused him and left him in the orphanage.

“I heard that there was a particularly bright student in my class, going by the name of Tom Riddle. It must be you then. I have very high expectations for you, young man.”

Tom was confused, but at the same time his chest was swelling in pride. This man, Professor Potter, had complimented him from the get go. He had very high hopes for Tom, as most teachers did, but this was different. The assured fire from ethereal verdant eyes did strange things to Tom’s head.

“I’ll try to live up to your expectations, sir.”

With an amused quirk from the man’s cherry red lips, he continued the roll and with the class. Tom decided that he liked Professor Potter. For now. Who knew? The teacher might just mess things up somehow later into the term. Professor Merrythought had done so unconsciously and Professor Driver was so full of himself that Tom had to re-study the material they were given. Which was a very rare instance.

“I’m assuming you all have done Pythagoras’ Theorem with Professor Driver?” Professor Potter said, putting down the roll.

There was a murmur of assent, but Lavender - that irritating girl - piped up. “Oh sir! We didn’t learn anything at all from him!”

Dark eyebrows lifted up. “Hmm? Would the class like to revisit the subject, or would it only be Miss Brown here?”

Lavender seemed please to have gotten the teacher’s attention so easily and have the man suggest a one-on-one tutoring lesson with him after classes. Unfortunately for her, the rest of the class bar Tom had agreed that they learnt nothing from the man.

“Ah, well, I suppose we can do some quick recap on them before we move onto the next unit.”

Tom came to the resolution that this was a good thing since Lavender Brown looked absolutely put out. It brought a mental smile to his face to see the girl be thwarted like so. Incessantly annoying fourteen year old minger.

He was pleasantly surprised when Professor Potter really knew his stuff.

 

It was nearing the end of the term and Tom decided to go out with his ‘friends’ before he went back to the orphanage. That had been a wildly bad move.

Tom wasn’t sure what these boys wanted, but they were the Seventh years and they had their hands in fists. This was a warning. They were taller than he was, much bulkier - except for the sandy haired boy, he was rather scrawny - and Tom wouldn’t have to look twice to see that they were hostile. The question was why they would target _him_.

The tallest one of the three, with dark brown hair and brown eyes to match, started to advance on Tom, swaggering his way.

“Y’know,” he started, his voice oddly squeaky and in that awkward stage between low and high, “I heard from around here that you were the son of Sir Riddle Sr.”

Tom caught up instantly. They were either here for money or to ridicule the fact that he was unwanted by his own father.

“I thought to myself, ‘Hey, that’s really handy. I’d like to have the son of a successful businessman in my domain.’” he paused to grin evilly. “Then I thought, ‘Nah, I’d rather see him be beat up after the shit his dad had sacked mine.’”

So, apparently Tom’s biological father had fired this boy’s father and he is now returning for revenge. Unfortunately, Tom wasn’t really in the custody of Sir Riddle Sr. See, Tom was alone, he only had Madam Cole and he refused to see her as a mother or any parental figure. To do so would be like torturing himself.

But this boy didn’t know that, they were oblivious to the fact that Tom lived in an orphanage and was unwanted by practically everyone - the girls in his year didn’t count, they wanted him in a romantic sort of sense which left him quite disgusted. He never knew there would be a day where he wanted to have somebody know he was from the orphanage as prior knowledge.

Two boys, the scrawny one and the other brown haired one, took hold of Tom’s arms. Tom, being prideful but also not wanting to get beat up, struggled as dignifiedly as he could. The third one, the one who had his father thrown out, put on a very wolfish sort of grin with no little amount of malice in them.

A fist swung up and crashed down right in the middle of his stomach. Tom grunted, his eyes clenching shut in pain and not wanting to cry. With a glare as cold as ice, Tom bared his teeth. The boy faltered a little, but he shrugged it off and swung another blow, this time to his side. He had to grit his teeth to avoid crying out, or chomping on his tongue.

“What? Feeling hurt?” the boy taunted, his two lackeys laughed uglily with him. “Come on, Riddle. Fight back, you wuss.”

It hurt Tom’s pride more than it did his body. With another grunt, he felt something fracture inside him - perhaps it was a rib - but, damn did it hurt. The boy didn’t seem to relent, his punches steady and firm. His fist would hit Tom’s side then to his stomach again and a sporadic kick to his shins.

His whole body hurt, his mind was racing a thousand paces at how to get revenge and his eyes were clenched shut. He wanted the bullies to die by his own hands, he wanted to watch them cry, plead and beg for forgiveness; and maybe Tom will say ‘Alright.’ see the hopes rising in their eyes and shatter them with torture. With pain, because they don’t deserve to die peacefully. They deserve to die at the torturous hands of Tom Riddle.

“OI!” A voice bellowed.

Tom felt hands loosening their grip and he fell to his knees, the palm of his hands scraped the gravel underneath him. There were panicked voices, the sounds of something heavy hitting the ground and a furious growl. Tom couldn’t be bothered to care, he curled in and heaved, trying to gather his composure. Then, he felt hands on him.

Flinching wildly and thrashing, Tom tried to escape.

“Shh, shh,” the familiar low voice said. “It’s fine, you’re safe now.”

Focusing on the shadow over him, Tom saw the familiar sight of messy hair and verdant eyes that had been teaching him for almost a whole term now. It was Professor Potter. Tom groaned inwardly in displeasure - he did _not_ want to have a teacher see him in this pitiful state. At least they did not touch his face. With a sadistic glee, he saw the tallest one, the one who was hitting him, laying on the ground with a bloody nose and teary eyes.

“Come on, I’ll carry you,” Professor Potter said. “I’ll take you to the hospital and later to my house, is that alright?”

Tom nodded. Madam Cole wouldn’t even notice Tom not being there. If she did, then she would be jumping for joy at the lack of Tom’s presence. She was always the bitter bint he detested.

Professor Potter did in fact check upon Tom’s wellbeing in the hospital. They confirmed one of his ribs to be fractured. The bruises shall stay and heal on its own over time. Professor Potter paid for all the procedures done on him, sending a letter back to the orphanage on the condition that Tom was in. Then he brought him back to his house.

The house was very homely, not too small, but not too big. It was the perfect home for a family of three children, which Professor Potter did not have.

“I will be putting you in one of the guest bedrooms, should you need anything just ring the bell or call out for me, you need the rest.”

“But professor,” Tom said, trying to hide his wince as his lungs expanded that tiny bit more when he spoke, moving his battered and bruised torso, “I still have school tomorrow.”

“I have the doctor’s notes and written back to the orphanage. Madam Cole will write back to the school.” Tom’s teacher suddenly stopped his fussing and turned to look into his garnet eyes. “I’ll catch you up on any work you are missing. Just leave this to the adults for now.”

Tom almost scoffed. Professor Potter looked barely like an adult. He couldn’t help but ask; “How old are you, sir? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Potter’s lips quirked up to that amused smile. “Well, I can say that I’m old enough to marry.”

_Yes, but you can marry at the age of sixteen,_ Tom’s mind directed irritatedly. Then his eyes widened fractionally. Professor Potter can’t be sixteen, can he? No, he would at least be eighteen. Right?

“I will confide, before your mind starts conjuring up impossible ages for me, that I am twenty years old,” he said with his hands clasped at his back. “I assume that would sate your curiosity?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Right. Now, it’s best if you went to bed now,” he said in his soft voice. “Goodnight Tom.”

With a warm stroke of large hands through his hair, Tom almost leaned into the touch. It was like a safety blanket, like a cup of rich hot chocolate that he once had, like a touch of care in one tiny brush. Then his teacher was out. Tom’s stomach hurt, but his chest tingled with something. He decided that he really liked Professor Potter. He was smart, strong and attractive - and Tom wanted to be like the man. Like the angel who had come in and swooped him into his arms. Tom wanted to be like that.

In his sleep addled brain, he vowed to become stronger, taller and smarter. Professor Potter became his role model. And thus, a newfound infatuation blossomed in Tom Riddle's little heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little insight to how Tom Riddle became obsessed with the one and only Professor Potter. I had to give it so that fourteen year old Riddle was a little more sane than sixteen year old Riddle. Lmao, teachers beating up a seventeen year old student, never do that. But Harry just happens to detest bullies (since he had experience being bullied).  
> I had a comment that wanted Tom Riddle's pov, so i wrote it. But when he's younger because writing a psychopath without build up is really hard for me. I don't have that mentality, so I'd rather observe and research before I do things. Also, writing psychopaths are harder than writing sociopaths pov. So please bear with me.  
> Is it good? Am I doing things well enough? Let me know guys!


	4. Faire un Smack

Chapter Four

Faire un Smack

 

_Faire un smack (Slang) - To give a light kiss_

 

“Professor Potter?”

Harry turned around, met with his favourite student, Tom Riddle. He knew that favouritism shouldn’t happen, but it was inevitable. Tom happened to be one of the few that actually listened to him in mathematics class.

“What is it, Tom?” Harry smiled.

“I was wondering if you could go over these quadratics with me, I seem to be struggling with question nine.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, looking mildly amused at Tom. Tom wasn’t one to be ‘struggling’ with questions, especially the ones that Harry set out to the class. Deciding to humour his pupil, Harry obliged.

“Very well, come take a chair, I’ll look it over.”

Ten minutes went by with Harry studiously going over a question. It was fairly simple, a farmer had 28 meters worth of wood and wanted to build a pen against a farm shed. That was one side of the pen taken care of, so Tom would have to define three of the variables, then make an equation out of it. Simple quadratics with a mix of algebra.

Tom had gotten it too. As good of an actor as he was, Harry could see the feigned confusion. No doubt Tom was frustrated that he had to hold back solving the equation straight away and having to go through it step by step. But Tom did make more legitimate mistakes than usual.

“Ah,” Tom sighed. “I think I’ve gotten it, however - just to be on the safe side - could you work through question ten with me as well?”

Question ten happened to have the same basis as question nine. Harry pursed his lips and looked at his student a few times over. Tom was distracted, allowing him those uncharacteristic blunders. His facade wasn’t as impenetrable as what the young boy might think. Harry leaned back on his chair.

“Tell me, Tom,” Harry folded his fingers, “why would you need my help?”

“Sir?”

“Well, I can’t help but wonder why you are calling upon my help when you’ve obviously practised the material.” Then Harry tilted his head. “You are also more distracted than usual.”

Tom’s eyes were averted downwards.

“Hmm?”

Garnet eyes gazed at verdant, unreadable and strong. Then a tiny, tiny smile was placed upon Tom’s lips. Harry waited patiently, his face in a warm expression, but closed off. Tom loved that passive aggressive sort of face on Harry. He wanted to be able to have that kind of effect as well. To have that false sense of security on his face and be able to pry information out of any student. Harry was good at that, Tom conceded.

He was glad that maths happened to be last period. Tom smiled and looked around the empty classroom. The door was closed, but not locked. What Tom had in mind did not need the door to be exclusively locked. Only closed. This was the time.

Tom hissed lowly, his eyes hooded and leaning forward. Tom saw Harry become startled, his eyes going wide. “Je veux te sauter et… t'apprendre des choses. T’humilier un peu…” Tom flicked his eyes down to Harry’s cherry lips. “Je veux te faire des choses.”

Harry’s French was practically nonexistent, yet it was such a beautiful language, rolling between Tom’s incredible linguistic skills.

“Very good, Tom,” Harry nodded. “Unfortunately, I am not familiar with the French language. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you were a local Frenchman!”

Tom smirked. His Harry was extremely oblivious to his advances. Tom didn’t understand; a simple student seeking for advise would not stay after class just to converse with the teacher. A simple student would not have been as attentive as Tom had been. A simple student wouldn’t have been in Harry’s house before.

Harry had entertained Tom over the year, rarely they went to his house as the library seemed to be the one place Harry absolutely loved. When he _did_ get invited to Harry’s house, Tom’s ego would inflate, the ideas in his head would grow more twisted and delve into paths which shouldn’t be sought. It was soon to be his fifteenth birthday, and Tom had a plan.

“Your impressive skills did _not_ , however, answer my question.”

_It’s time._

Tom knew that Professor Potter had the same feelings as he did. Why else would he invite Tom over when no-one else had been? Why else would Harry save him from those bastard bullies when he was fourteen? Why else would Harry smile like that to him?

It was because Harry loved Tom. He was sure of it. The hot and warped, perverted feeling inside him was from Professor Potter. Every time he did that goddamned smile, every time he stood up for Tom… Yes, Tom was convinced that Harry loved him.

Tom stood up - his growth spurt had him an inch height advantage over Harry - and pinned Harry’s wrists to the desk. With a sultry smile that Tom made when he wanted to charm some foolish person, he leaned down, his nose almost touching the Professor’s.

“Professor,” Tom halted and then grinned a little more roguishly, “ _Harry._ ”

Harry frowned, his hands trying to get out of the grip that Tom had them in and pulled. His whole body was pushed back onto his chair, trying to get some distance over him and Tom. Maybe this was how students share secrets between teachers? How would he know, it was just his second year on the job!

“Don’t pretend that I don’t see you glancing my way every so often in class,” Tom’s voice was a breath on Harry’s lips. “Don’t claim that you’re not interested in me, because I _see you._ ”

Harry was a little concerned. “Whatever do you mean, Tom?”

“There you go again, calling me by my given name. Tell me, Professor, am I your favourite student?”

Harry watched as feverish garnet eyes bore themselves into his. Then it clicked. _Oh_. Tom’s doing his little game again. Every once in awhile, Tom would do things that required Harry’s full attention, like standing too close, or catching his hand and brushing the back of his knuckles with Tom’s lips. It was always like that, and Harry couldn’t help but feel as if it was a little endearing if not childish.

But Tom _was_ one of his favourite. “Yes, Tom.” Harry smiled. “Yes, you are.”

“Am I the _only_ one?”

Harry frowned, the small smile on his lips parted to allow a confused expression. “No? I mean, you are an excellent student, Tom. I applaud you for your hard work. But I happen to be a teacher who is fond of others that do the same as you. For example, Mr. Kennen. Or Miss Bulstrode.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed all the sudden. “That would not do.”

And with another confused breath from Harry, Tom pressed his lips onto Harry’s parted ones. It was light, a brushing sort of motion which Harry had felt once with one of his old friends, Hermione Granger. It was all a bit of an experiment, but to have a boy do this… it was wrong. Especially with the power title that Harry wielded.

Harry gently pushed Tom away, his lips mashed into a tight line and his eyes were hard.

“Tom,” Harry started, his voice stilted. “Please do not misunderstand my favouritism as something of the like. We are very different individuals and we cannot be seen doing such immoral behaviours.”

“But professor,” Tom’s voice was calm, soothing and soft. “If nobody sees us, then we’re fine. A relationship between a teacher and a student is not unheard of.”

“Yes, but they are consenting adults!” Harry scowled, his face a stoic mask of stern. “They are between persons of legal age. I am twenty-one. You are merely fifteen. You are not an adult. And this,” Harry made to stand, his hands pushing Tom further away from his being, “is wrong.”

“Why is it so wrong?” Tom pushed back. He wanted to stick close to Harry.

“Because, we are men. I am a teacher, you are my student. There’s nothing more beyond that point.”

“Oh please,” Tom scoffed, his face disbelieving of what Harry had just said. “You _can’t_ be serious. There’s so much more to us than just a relationship between a student and a teacher. I know how you look at me. I’ve _seen_ it. Don’t kid yourself, Harry.”

“It’s ‘Professor Potter’ to you, Mr. Riddle.” Harry said, his voice deceptively soft. “And it’s best you get out of here. I see you the same way I would see Mr. Malfoy - with pride. Don’t let my thoughts of you sour.”

Tom sneered. For once, Harry saw the true face of Tom Riddle. He wasn’t the cool, calm and collected boy. He wasn’t the polite pupil in his class. He was a sick psychopath with anger and parental issues, on top of a superiority complex. But Harry didn’t know how deep it went.

“Be warned, Professor. Suppressing feelings does no good for you.” Then Tom pushed Harry so hard, that he stumbled on the back of the blackboard and slammed his head. He saw stars behind his eyes. “I want you to confess your feelings within the next forty-eight hours. Do _not_ disappoint me.”

“I have nothing to tell you,” which was the absolute truth. “You are just my student, Riddle, do not overstep the boundary.”

“And you just happened to be something more to me, Harry.” Tom pressed his teacher’s shoulders onto the board. His other hand gripped his teacher’s jaw in place. “I don’t share, nor do I not seek what I want.”

“What you want is not what I want.”

“Too bad,” and harshly, he kissed Harry once more. It was painful, too many teeth and resistance from the other party. He was glad that Harry couldn’t break his hold. _I’m getting stronger than Harry,_ he thought gleefully. _I’m also taller. I’ve surpassed Harry’s standards._

His ideology went so high off the charts. He wanted to be just like Harry, and now he had gone beyond that. Now, he was going to be Tom, _Harry’s lover._ He would make sure of it.

Tom relented on the kiss, his breathing heavy and his lips turned into a mad grin. “Look sharp, professor.” Tom commented, his tongue flicked to swipe across his teacher’s cherry lips. “Wouldn’t want you to be found out this way, right?”

“Release me, Riddle. Right now.”

And release him he did. But not before he stole another perverted kiss and smirked. “You know, professor. I’m glad you became to be a teacher. I have a feeling that even if you weren’t, I’d still find you.”

“Get off it. You are _not_ to repeat that ever again.”

“And who are you to tell me so?”

“I am your teacher. I have the authority here. Now, get out of my classroom.”

Surprisingly, Tom did go. And without a word. His eyes glazed over, making them hard and unreadable. He packed his books and turned, never looking back at Harry again. Harry slumped on the wall. _Oh no_. He must never let that happen again. With a hand to his lips, Harry rubbed it away. Disgusting, immoral, impure.

Tom Riddle would _not_ be allowed to touch him ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm almost out of school! Yay! Next year I'll be going off to college, boo!  
> Anyways, give me your thoughts on this. Is it any good? Is it bad? I'm really sorry if it's bad. I'm not a very good author, you see.  
> Also, I'm really sorry for any grammatical errors on the French. I'm just a lowly beginner French learner, and if you could point out my mistakes, then I'd be more than happy to fix it!
> 
> Je veux te sauter et t'apprendre des choses. T’humilier un peu - I want to fuck (jump) you, teach you things, humiliate you a little.  
> Je veux te faire des choses - I want to do stuff to you (dirty context)


	5. Riddle the Rapist

Chapter Five  


Riddle the Rapist

 

_ "It's your word against mine, Harry.” _

Harry had learnt that it was easier to convince someone that you were insane than the opposite.

He once had a friend, Maximus Driscoll. He wasn’t quite right at the head and that was what led him to be thrown into a mental asylum. Max was about to be charged for raping and beating up a little girl - horrifying tale and even more horrifying when Harry found out he was friends with a molester.

Nevertheless, Max was once still his friend. Harry wondered why Max was never admitted to jail until he visited Max recently. Though Max was mad, he was still somebody who had experience doing such sinful crimes and Harry wanted to… well, not  _ understand, _ more like to prepare himself and try to lead his own criminal away from him.

Max launched a story. He seemed perfectly normal, composed and so, so calm. He convinced the jurors that he was a little bit mad. That he ‘got sexual pleasure from wrenches’. Apparently, he heard that statement in a movie or rather, but he faked madness a little  _ too _ well and landed himself in Broadmoor.

Max had been in Broadmoor since he was eighteen. He was now twenty-two. When Harry asked nurses how long Max would be there for, they said; “He’s on indefinite care.”

To be honest, Max should’ve served his twenty years on jail and another three on probation; also putting himself in the sex-offender registry. That was way better than being constantly medicated, taunted and ‘cared’ for in Broadmoor.

Harry asked if Max had tried to convince people he wasn’t actually crazy. He said yes.

“But how in the world do you convince somebody that you’re insane?” Max pleaded. “How do you sit normally? If I don’t talk to the other deranged people here, they’ve labelled me as having a sense of grandiose. But if I do, then that’s just fraternising with  _ the same kind. _ I can’t win no matter how I act because these doctors will only paint me in the sense that I’m a psychopath!”

That got Harry thinking.

_ “And, forgive me if I'm being a bit presumptuous; however, I'm inclined to suspect that they will end up believing me: the poor, unfortunate orphan who was preyed upon. Don't you agree?" _

Tom was right. Harry couldn’t really convince anybody that it was the pitiful boy who was terrorising the teacher, who had the upper hand of being an adult and holding power over the student, rather than the other way around.

But that didn’t answer why raping even had occurred in Tom’s mind, nor Max’s.

“Think of it as a robbery,” Max said. “You’re doing it because of a reason. Is it desperation? Want? Revenge? There is intent behind every action. Once you plan it, once it gets to your head, you fall prey to that action. A human’s desperation and wants are dangerous things. And if that plan is in action… there is little thought of backing down.”

Harry couldn’t wrap his mind over that analogy, but he understood desperation. He understood want and revenge. He’d done his fair share of longing in his childhood, he’d done his fair share of revenge in his adolescent years. But Tom wouldn’t be doing this out of revenge, would he?

It was unclear. Tom’s intent wasn’t a pure one and it hurt Harry on a mental and physical level. Harry could never ever fathom what went on in Tom’s twisted mind, nor did he want to. But it made Harry curious beyond belief.  _ Why? _

Thoughts of that first kiss haunted him, of those times Tom lingered just a little too long for it to be comfortable or when he first smiled genuinely over at Harry. Those little steps that led up to the point where Tom became a monster.  _ How? _

How in the world did Harry manage to be a prey to the predator’s hungry gaze?  _ Why, how? _

Since _ when? _

“Possessiveness and covetous intentions are primarily what drives a human to do such things,” Max had told him. “It could be because you’re desperately in love, or another person is extremely attractive. I think that was what drove me. She was a lovely thing; small and delicate. Pretty. And I wanted her. I coveted. When she did not want me back, I retaliated. How I retaliated was my mistake.

“But remember this, Harry. I am a criminal with feelings. I was a rapist, but I still had feelings. There are power rapists, anger rapists and sadistic rapists, then there are serial rapists. I was doing it out of anger because of something I couldn’t have. Serial rapists are different… I don’t know what’s going on in their mind. You’ll think that I’m truly mad by now, but crimes are often spontaneous and impulsive. We live with the consequences.”

In all of his life, Harry had never been more thoroughly repulsed by the human race. Disgusting, unworthy, distrustful, covetous and deceitful. All of them, even his friends, even his very own student. This selfish satisfaction that people had and their twisted ways. Harry was done. He hated life more than he hated himself. He hated Max and Tom, he hated, hated,  _ hated. _

Sick gratifications. Harry felt weary. Imagine all those other women in the world who went through what Harry was going through right now. Imagine all those poor kids and women who lived in fear of what was happening to Harry right now. He couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. He wanted them to stop. But what could Harry, a lone teacher, do?

_ Fight one problem at a time. _ Harry thought.  _ Think of it as a maths equation. Go through the formula, don’t skip ahead to the answers. Go through it slowly and thoroughly, or else marks will be deducted. _

Harry wanted help. He wanted the help so badly. But who would he tell this to and how?  _ ‘I’ve been raped by my student who happens to be an orphan and can lie extremely well?’ _ No. That would get him jail time. Perhaps jail was better than here, though. However, he  _ had _ heard of things such as prison rape and he didn’t want to escape and be mushed in another one of those.

It didn’t help that Harry was lithe and slender. It didn’t help that even though he inherited his father’s features, he still looked softer around the edges because of his mother. It didn’t help that the one thing his mother gave him were his startling eyes and the very thing that drew Tom even further in. It never helped the fact that he was Harry Potter and Fate happened to love messing around with his life.

As Harry closed his eyes, he remembered red. Beautiful and deadly. The red of Tom’s eyes, the red of blood, the red haze of Harry’s own anger. One thing was clear; Tom wasn’t a serial rapist. It has only been Harry as far as he knew.

Harry didn’t eat, didn’t sleep and didn’t go to work. He had called in for a sick leave, with his voice still scratchy and tight whenever he remembered Tom and his plundering. Shame coursed through his veins. He’d been bested by a mere sixteen year old. He’d been pinned down and used like a doll. Riddle the Rapist. Harry giggled hysterically. He was losing grip on reality.

_ Help me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling. I've come across an arch where I have to justify why I have involved Rape into my story, why it revolves around it. I'm rather reluctant and days after days of research and documentaries, I still don't know how to write in the perspective of a rapist or how to explain it. Please bear with me. I think that it's good that i can't put myself into the eyes of a rapist though, my mum said that. Insanity is going to be put in. I think that insanity and sick fantasies might be something to look out for in this story.  
> Let me hear your thoughts on rape, psychopaths and the story so far in general.


	6. A Fresh Start

Chapter Six

A Fresh Start

 

“You’re telling me this _now?”_

Harry looked at Hermione, her posture shaking and seething with unconcealed horror. Or was it rage? It didn’t matter, but she wasn’t looking at him in the eye.

“Harry, you must tell the authorities about this.”

“No! Don’t you _understand?_ It’s my word against theirs, Hermione. I’ve no chance of getting out of this without being labelled a molester, rapist and criminal!” Harry whisper-shouted at her.

“Then tell me who’s doing this. It’s a student, yes, I get that. But why are you so powerless against a student? You’re an adult. You’re bigger and have a whole lot of influence -”

“Hermione.” Harry cut her off. “I’m _dying_ in here. I _know_ I’m an adult and that’s why I’ve decided to do this. That’s why I’ve decided to talk this out with you because you’re the most logical and adult person I know. I’m asking for your help. That’s all I want.”

Brown eyes turned sad and soft. Hermione’s pink lips quivered as she held onto herself. “But I don’t understand why you have to leave. Or why you couldn’t just tell me where you’re going - or who this student is! Harry, I’m sure I can sort her out.”

Harry closed his eyes, remembering a flash of unforgiving garnet behind his lids. “It’s a him.”

He heard a choked sort of sob shatter the angry tension between them and replaced with pity. Harry _hated_ pity and he hated the uncomfortable situation they were in now. Then, he felt arms wrap around him which made his eyes fly open wildly and flinch from Hermione’s touch.

She exhaled a trembling breath, her hands dropped by her side and her bottom lip shook dangerously.

“Oh, Harry… I’m… I…”

“It’s fine. I’ll be fine. You know I will be, but I’ll never be fine if I stay _here.”_ he hesitated before grasping Hermione’s shaking hands between his own. “If I stay here, then I’ll never be fine. _He_ won’t stop, I can feel it. Just… please.”

“Okay.” she whispered. “Alright. But when this is all over, you’ll tell me where you are. You’ll tell me and you’ll tell Ron about your whole situation. Because, damn it Harry, you’re like family. I hate to see you like this.”

“I’ll be back. Promise. You’ll see in three to four years from now, I’ll be back on my feet and this will all disappear.”

She hugged Harry suddenly. Harry stilled, tried to even out his breaths and remind himself that human contact was fine. Nothing was disgusting if it came to his own best friend. That he was okay and he’ll be even better than ever. That he’d recover from this phase and be able to touch others without remembering _him_.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too.” Harry said, returning the hug after a decade of trying to calm himself. “I’ll tell Ron what I told you, but I won’t tell him it was a student. I’ll say… I’ll tell him that it was a random at a pub. Tell him that there’s nothing he could do about it now. It’s too late.”

Hermione sniffled and nodded. Harry squeezed her frame one more time before patting the top of her bushy hair and left. But just before Harry got out the door, he heard Hermione mumble: “It’s never too late.”

 

Harry fled the country.

He couldn’t see a way out of Tom except for leaving. Tom was just sixteen and he wouldn’t get out until two years later. Two years of freedom and of erasing his tracks. Harry had plenty of time to do that. If Hermione couldn’t help him, then he would have to help himself.

That was a lie. Hermione did suggest things, but most of them included the police and legal procedures.

_"It's your word against mine, Harry.”_

She didn’t understand. She’s a woman, her case would be far more compelling than Harry’s because he was a man. A man who would be prosecuted with engaging in sexual intercourse with an unwilling minor. That was how Tom was going to play it if Harry ever got this out to the public. So, no, he would keep this between himself and Hermione.

Ron didn’t need to know. He would do something rash, like beat Tom up and no matter what Harry felt about Tom, there was something inherently wrong with letting your friend get jailed because of your problems. Hermione didn’t like that Harry kept Ron in the dark, but it was for the best.

So, with his passport and a visa to elongate his stay, Harry flew over to Australia. No one would notice him there, with Australia being more obscure than America and farther away from anywhere else within the vicinity of England.

Harry was momentarily glad that he had no living relatives with him (the Dursleys could go and piss on themselves for all he cared) and that the Principal wasn’t making the official announcement of Harry’s transition until he was far away from the school and Tom. _Very_ far away.

He felt a little bad for his students and his friends. He also felt really bad for the school having to replace Harry after just two years of teaching, but when he weighed out the pros and cons of staying or leaving, leaving was more appealing to him.

 

_3 Years Later_

 

Australia was feeling particularly drab this week. It had been raining for five days straight, after the hot blaze of the sun shone down on them. Hard to think that weather could be so volatile, but here it was. It was also strange to have no snow in December. In fact, it was summer. Summer tended to go up to thirty celsius.

But the rain had everything drop to a nine degree celsius. It was colder than the last month, but warmer than Britain. Definitely warmer.

Other than the climate, Harry had settled into a job at a high school. The students there didn’t wear blazers as his old workplace did, instead they used assigned navy blue polo shirts with the school logo on their left chest pocket. They could use whatever bottoms they wanted as long as they were within the school dress codes.

There was a student in his class who looked a bit like Tom did; he had black hair and the facial structure (only less defined) but Tom didn’t look very easy to approach and had an intimidating aura around him. This boy, Shandon Russell, was a shy sort. And not as smart. But he didn’t mind it. Less similarities to Tom, less worry for Harry.

He liked his new start in life and he liked the people he surrounded himself with. Harry’s new neighbour, Draco Mallory, was probably the only person who Harry was truly friendly with after Tom.

Mallory was very pale for a person who had lived in Australia for most of his life. He came from England, just like Harry, but left at the age of fifteen because his father had a business promotion that would have them move to Australia.

Ever since then, Mallory hadn’t gone back to England except to do occasional visits.

“Gloomy today, isn’t it?”

Harry turned to see Mallory going up beside him with a pack of beer cans in a Coles bag. Mallory had no taste for beer and he didn’t like them one bit. However, he did have friends who liked it so he bought it for the sake of being a good host.

“It’s been gloomy for the last couple o’ days.” Harry nodded, taking out an umbrella from his own bag.

“Not quite as gloomy as London,” Mallory sighed.

“Never as gloomy as London,” Harry agreed. He jerked his chin towards the beers cans. “Entertaining some of your lovely friends tonight, Draco?”

He rolled his pale eyes to the sky and back, a playful smile on his lips. “Yeah, nah. Been buggering me the last few days. To celebrate.”

“Oh? Mind me asking what you’re celebrating?”

“Got myself a promotion. Head executive.” his grin was blinding.

Harry pounded his fist to Mallory’s shoulder. “That’s great! About bloody time, if you ask me. Are Parkinson and Jones coming over?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a distant relative coming over as well. They’re not actually here for my promotion, they’re here for a vacation. But thought might as well visit good ol’ Draco. Bringing a friend too!”

“Nice. I’m glad you got that promotion, Draco. I wish you all the best in your endeavours.”

Mallory smiled, his face expressed fondness and longing. “God, you make me miss England at times. It’s really nice talking to another Brit. Feels a bit nostalgic, y’know? Haven’t lived there in ten years.”

“You should go back when you have the time, Head executive,” Harry chuckled. “Once or twice a year.”

“Have you gone back yet?”

“Only been your neighbour for three years, mate. You really want to kick me off the country so soon? What? Can’t stand my morning shower singing?”

“Oh God, I thought that was a damned strangled cat.”

“Shove off,” Harry’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned. “Right. I’ll be going back now.”

“Want to have a drink with me and my friends?” Mallory offered.

“Tempting, but nah. Can’t make it today. Thanks for the invite, though. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Right. Take care!”

Harry got what he wanted. He got freedom and a clean slate. He was slowly, but surely, recovering from the traumatic events of his past. He didn’t freeze whenever he was touched anymore! And when Mallory or Parkinson hugged him, he didn’t shove them away (it was a bit hard to make up a story on the spot for that, so he blamed it on the Dursleys). In Harry’s eyes, he was doing a marvellous job at a fresh start.

Canberra was obscure enough for Tom to not be able to track him down. He was sure that Tom would forget about him in due time. It’ll be fine. Harry was okay and he’ll be fine. He just needed to be careful when it came to helping teenagers. Be sure that his kindness wasn’t misinterpreted in any way.

It’ll be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing: Draco Malfoy as Draco Mallory!!  
> Please don't hate me for this chapter. I just had my Orientation day and I would rather focus on that first than this work. So sorry for that >.<


	7. Tom's Shakespearean Predicament

Chapter Seven

Tom's Shakespearean Predicament

 

Tom couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was another rumour going around, one that made him deeply anxious. Professor Harry Potter was transferring over to another school - no, not just another school either. Another _country._

As the Principal stood there, lecturing with his stupid long beard and his stupid purple suit, Tom began to seethe. His Harry had disappeared, forgetting to tell Tom where he was going. That was plain bad etiquette for a lover to have. He would have to change Harry’s habits.

“... to conclude our assembly, I would just like to announce our new Mathematics teacher; Professor Hayes.” the Principal turned to beckon a short woman in a brown dress with brown shoes to match. “She’ll be picking up from where our Professor Potter had left. Please make her feel very welcome.”

A wave of applause erupted. Tom did not clap for her, she was a short-ended substitute for his Harry. She would never be able to make him interested in what they were learning and she would never understand Tom’s dynamics.

Harry knew. Harry was _made_ for Tom, he knew that. So why had Harry neglected to tell Tom of his untimely departure?

Perhaps Tom had been a little too forward, or perhaps Harry wanted this to be more exciting. Maybe he wanted to make a game out of their unusual relationship. Some excitement to their relatively mundane life. But what was Tom to do? He was only but a sixteen-year-old orphan.

Ah, but a very smart, handsome and charming sixteen-year-old orphan with a tremendously wealthy father and a few family friends who were at his disposal. Surely he could sacrifice one of his long overdue debts and use it? Maybe he should wait for blackmail first. Empty-handed threats were not something that Tom Riddle approved of, he was never that sloppy.

Nor was he someone careless. But apparently, he still made mistakes as he just witnessed Harry officially announced to have departed England and to another bloody continent.

“Remember to study diligently, students. And don’t forget - follow your dreams and never let anything hinder you.” Principal Dippet finished his long-winded speech, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

_Never let anything hinder you._

Tom was hardly one to let something as minor as his age and the matter of money hinder him; but he won’t deny, it would be far more helpful had he been an adult and with enough money to plan Harry’s return back to England from wherever he was.

Yes, Tom wouldn’t let this be a hindrance. The Malfoys and Notts were undeniably very loyal to him when they’d find out that not only was Tom to inherit everything his father left him (orphaned or no) but they’d also found out that Tom was of a royal family. The Slytherins. Vastly respected and only well-known to other royal families.

Malfoy and Nott could prove to be very useful to him - just as soon as he thought of a way to get his inheritance earlier. He couldn’t claim his Slytherin vaults until he was at least eighteen years of age. He could wait for that, but there must be a way of speeding his father’s side of treasures.

It was like a lightbulb that sparked comically over his head; like the snap of a book bared open before him for him to see the answer. There were two ways he could take this - the slightly, much more harmless way but would get him uncertain products or the darker path that would land him straight to where he wanted.

The Notts were good at disposing of things and the Malfoys had excellent connections with the corrupt British government. He _could_ take in the debt… or he could just play a power card. They would never be truly free from his grasp and they would know that. Tom could only disillusion both Nott and Malfoy with the knowledge that they were his most faithful and trusted.

If it were a smaller picking, Tom wouldn’t have had problems with coercing them to do what he wanted. But this was Sir Tom Riddle Sr. - a widely public and admired figure - that Tom was about to terrorise. It would be hard - maybe… maybe he could make it look staged. Or an accident. Never putting the blame on him.

Didn’t that boy from two years back still had a grudge on Tom and his bastard of a father? Didn’t Tom always see him lurking around, just waiting to ambush on Tom or Harry? The mere thought of that boy being able to hurt a hair on his head (or Harry’s on that matter) was laughable.

Never let anything hinder you. It was against Tom’s nature to not seek out what he wanted so desperately. And he wanted Harry Potter back with him.

Was Tom adverse to murder? Well, there was really one way to find out, isn’t there?

 

Tom looked down at the brazen whore lying down at his feet. She wore an obscenely high skirt on her dress and her bosom stuck out from her unbuttoned blouse. There were dark splotches of red which seeped into her shirt and onto the covered floor. Tom didn’t want her blood to be spread around on the tiled floor. One drop of her blood stuck onto anything that wasn’t about to be disposed, and Tom would be sorely disappointed with himself. He didn’t do this experiment carefully only to have it be botched.

To think that this teacher had been so uncaringly flirting with one of her students… Harry never did it so freely. He was subtle and only towards Tom. He showed boundless kindness towards Tom and he knew that what he saw in those eyes weren’t just feelings of immoral lust - he was sure it was love. They were in love.

But Professor Hayes was disgusting. She would bat her lashes at any student she saw fancy, including Tom; _especially Tom._

But he was grateful she was easy enough. She was his first ever murder and it didn’t feel as traumatising as he thought it would. His research to mentally prepare himself had paid off, Tom thought. He had been strong enough to not go into whatever shite the books he poured over told him it would feel.

He tightened his latex gloves and began to undress her dead body. It wasn’t proper to let any part of him be discovered. Abraxas had told him that the Ministry were inventing something new to track down criminals by sampling a person’s hair, or fingerprint, or spit. Just anything that was part of the criminals themselves. It made Tom very cautious, though he hadn’t seen them be used, he still wasn’t about to take any chances. Abraxas wouldn’t lie to him about this.

She really was a slag. Underneath her thin clothes, she wore nothing but a pair of sheer, lacy panties that were far too small to cover anything decently and matching bralettes. It made him throw back to when Harry used similar attire as the female professor for their roleplay. Harry had been much more appealing in the sheer stuff than the woman. Perhaps it was because he was not attracted to her.

To dismember her or to not? This oddly Shakespearean predicament had Tom contemplate his next move. He _had_ planned it, but he was still undecided whether he wanted to sever her limbs or not. The saw laid down, shining and still, practically egging Tom to simply use it. He found it hard to resist.

He read somewhere that it would be hard to make a clean cut with saws, they tore flesh, not slide through the muscles. But it was also the most convenient. Besides, who would find the body anyways? A knife was surely not about to cut through bone either - his practical lesson with getting handsy with a bone in Science had proved how tough the fuckers were.

The safest bet would be to cut Hayes’s head off. That way, if her body was somehow to be found, then they wouldn’t be able to identify her until they developed the human identifying machine or whatnot.

Tom began to arrange the woman’s naked limbs to spread out across the plastic-covered floor. He turned her head sideways, checking the angle of her neck before turning her over. Necks were easier to break this way, Tom decided. He hovered his heavy-duty boots over her the nape of her neck and practically jumped on her delicate spot.

He heard the snap, the mush of flesh against ground and the breaking of something that wasn’t quite brittle, but still held up a fight. Though it sent a shiver of goosebumps up his arms and back, Tom wasn’t too worried about it. He was more worried about how to proceed to cut off the limbs as well.

Wrap them up in separate plastic bags, shave off any hairs on her body - yes, even her pubes - and either skin her and take her bones out or cremate them all.

Tom was always glad he researched things before doing them because if he did want to cremate her, the bones would take longer to chemically break down and turn into ash. It was good she wasn’t obese, in fact she was rather thin, so the flesh and muscles shouldn’t be too hard to burn through. Then it would come with her insides being turned to ash as well, and that was Tom’s job done.

Lestrange was in charge of disposing the body, but Tom had to set careful and detailed instructions so the fool wouldn’t expose any of them before they’re even twenty. Getting away with things that might not be smiled upon by the general consensus of the public made Tom very giddy.

Maybe he should just get Lestrange here already so he could help Tom with breaking off the limbs then incinerating them. Maybe, they’ll just bury it. There sure was enough land in the outskirts of Wales, obscure enough for a body to be able to be scattered around the woods and left to decompose. In fifty years, the body won’t even be there anymore. It’d just be compost - maybe not even.

A forest was the best place to hide the body, Tom reckoned. A naked body would serve quicker decomposing time; basing off the acidity of the land, they could break down Hayes’s rotting body faster. The vegetation would adapt pieces of her body to be covered in the plants and growth there, quickly hiding the body but not quite decomposing it yet. And predators were your best friends, they would eat away the flesh (and sometimes bones) leaving little to be exposed.

It would be discreet enough. The tiles would be scrubbed clean, their clothes would be burnt and the evidence would be covered. The plastics would be melted before they were thrown away, the saw used to tear Hayes’s limbs off would be destroyed and Tom wouldn’t even be in the vicinity of Wales when the authorities realised Hayes was missing.

That’s right, ‘Missing’ not ‘Murdered’. Because Tom’s lackeys weren’t about to to lead polices to believe that she had been murdered. They had no evidence that she had been anything otherwise; only time would tell. And the longer she was ‘Missing’, the longer the police were inclined to believe that Hayes was dead. Until they realise that she simply wasn’t returning.

If this worked, then getting rid of Sir Riddle Sr. would be a harder level to what they had just done. Tom shall secure his place as heir of the Riddle fortune first before killing his father off and that added the benefit of Tom not being heavily suspected to foul play when the time came.

Was Tom adverse to murder? Apparently not really.

Harry would be so pleased to have a lover who’d go to such great lengths to get him back. Look at how loyal Tom was, eliminating the threat of a woman who was a good thirty years older than himself. He wasn’t even tempted by the massive pairs of melons she paraded around her classroom unlike some of the boys in his class because Tom only wanted one thing.

_Je te veux, Harry Potter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom's biding his time. He has to locate Harry before he could do anything. Delusions start to settle in and the psychosis and the heavier shit starts to be unloaded  
> I know, another chapter??? What??? In such short time??? This is because i will be going off to Indonesia on Monday the 11th! Ahh! I'm about to meet my new baby niece! Anywhoo, I hope this wasn't too bad. I tried to think about the murder scenario logically, like how Tom would think of it. To be honest, I think he's taking Principal Dippet's words for the wrong purposes. Would you guys like to hear what happens to Harry or more of Tom and his father? I actually have no idea where I'm going with this.  
> I hope you guys enjoy this fic, the comments have been insanely supportive and throwing me suggestions and praise left and right. It's been such a privilege to write this and to have good feedback for it as well. I'll write some more tomarry in the future (if you guys would like that)


	8. Armagnac x Phenazepam

Chapter Eight

Armagnac x Phenazepam

 

Madam Cole was often angry at Tom for some of the things he said, that was why Tom hardly ever voiced out his thoughts.

He didn’t strictly believe in the religious things that Madam Cole enforced on all the children. He didn’t believe in evil powers and light powers and he didn’t believe in prayers. What he did believe based on their Sunday sermons was power and those too weak to seek it. 

“To pray is to let God take control,” they often said. Tom didn’t want anyone else having control except for himself.

But he had to applaud God.

Condition the fear, love and respect into a person; show them a little kindness, show them that you can be compassionate. But do not show that frequently. You did not want to be marked as a weakling. Only as a generous and kind being with the power to hurt and strike. Make them worship you, a divine being with no tangible evidence to your existence and omnipotence.

That's how God made his followers and believers.

Madam Cole would have given him a thrashing if she ever heard Tom’s thoughts as Tom thought himself as a God amongst his own followers. And Gods get what they want. He wanted more power, influence and Harry. Especially Harry.

The end of the term was nearing and Tom still had no solid lead on how to start off taking his father out of the way. Nor did he have any leads on Harry.

Tom kept the mug of hot chocolate close to him, relishing in the warmth that emitted from it. Hot chocolates reminded him of Harry and their first mug of it. Christmas was coming soon and it would be his birthday. Just another two terms before it was summer hols and he would be free.

Of course, his plan had to be enacted when he was still at school - it would rouse too much suspicion should he have Sir Riddle Sr. mysteriously discovered dead whilst Tom was out of school. They’d point fingers at him because Tom was the abandoned child who Sir Riddle Sr. would not want. Tom had ulterior motives, they could pin it down on him. But if he was at  _ school _ \- and not to mention that it was a boarding school - Tom wouldn’t be able to be suspected as easily.

Really, what could a poor, average, orphan like Tom do to his father when he was being under the surveillance of his beloved school? They never suspected him for the disappearance of Professor Hayes and Tom had been there on the scene.

A diligent student, able to charm most people with a single smile and mild-mannered. Tom would be the least of their suspects when he conveyed just how blindingly detached and innocent he was. Once his birthday had passed, he was about to receive the best birthday present that he could ever hope for. Well, that was until he got back with Harry.

Tom could almost taste victory in the air - he just needed to find out where Harry was before Tom lost his mind.

But where to even start with that? He didn’t really know who Harry associated himself with apart from that one female Weasley and her brothers. They didn’t look too close, at least Tom didn’t think so. Excluding them, Harry had never mentioned any other people that he held close to him. Surely there were others?

_ Maybe you’re the only one, Tom. _

Yes, maybe Tom was the only one that truly mattered to Harry and he didn’t tell anyone where he went because that information was only privy to Tom. This chase was most likely designed for Tom to show his loyalty to Harry. He loved Harry and would do just about anything to get him back. Even if it meant committing one or two murders, maybe several robberies and countless of manipulation.

Abraxas had informed Tom where Sir Riddle Sr. was going for the holidays. He was to depart on Christmas eve to go to France. Tom needed to converse with his father before he kills him. He needed to have Riddle Sr. sign over the contract before he died.

Tom didn’t  _ have _ to do that, he’d still get the Riddle vaults and possessions one way or another, but it would be better if Riddle Sr. had been cooperative enough to do so. That way, as soon as he dies, Tom would be placed as the next Sir Riddle ASAP.

He needed to have Riddle Sr. be discovered dead - it cannot be written off as missing. Or else, Tom wouldn’t get the family inheritance until the current Sir Riddle Sr. was found dead or alive. And that could take  _ ages _ and Tom had to have the inheritance straight away. It would do him no good to dawdle when Harry was out there and all alone, waiting for Tom to come and find him.

“Tom.”

Garnet eyes flicked themselves to where the voice lay. Patrick Collins, Tom’s current ‘advisor’. He would’ve had only Abraxas and Nott advise him, but Patrick had his uses as well. Especially when it came to putting out ideas. Some were useful, some were not. And some plots were designed just to quench his bloodthirst. Collins could be as lethal as Lestrange in that matter.

And it so happened that tonight was a particularly thirsty night for Collins.

“If we mildly temper with Sir Riddle Sr.’s plane, then perhaps -”

Tom gave a look of disdain and cut him off. “No. I’m not going to risk tempering a fucking  _ plane, _ Collins. Not only are we just children, but none of us are close to my father’s associates. Only Abraxas here actually got information for us and that information gives us the time. Now we need the method before that time runs out.”

“I can create those connections, Tom.” Collins sat up straighter, leaning forwards in his chair. “I can create the connections you need to go through with the plane idea.”

“And risk the lives of others?” Nott spoke up, his dark brows arching up.

“It’s not like we haven’t.”

Nott’s face twisted in disgust. “That was  _ one _ woman. She was in our line of fire and crucial to Tom’s objective. You’re being an idiot. If we take other’s -”

“And these other people are also in our line of fire. Getting to Riddle Sr. is also crucial to Tom’s objective.” Collins slowly rose up from his seat, glaring at Nott. 

Tom sighed in irritation. Nott and Collins never got on with each other and it was giving him a massive headache. One of these days, Tom’s not going to have the patience to put up with their childish arguments and kill them instead of the proper targets. But they both made good points.

He stood up gracefully, ensuring Collins stop his advance from Nott. With a pointed look, Tom ordered Patrick to sit back down, which he complied to do. Good. It was time for some order.

“Make the connections,” Tom said impassively to Collins. “But do not act on anything until I decide where to go from here. Gather more information and I want them back by Christmas Holidays. We’re not going to sabotage a plane. We’re not committing genocide any time soon, gents.”

“But Tom -”

“Remember who’s in charge, Collins,” he glared. “A little patricide to spice up one’s life never hurt anybody.” With a dark gleam in his garnet eyes, Tom’s lips quirked into a sardonic smile. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt me. Of course,” Tom continued, his face turning back to the impassive mask. “If we do this wrong, then one of you are going to get the time of their lives in a dungeon on a one-on-one interview with me.”

Collins, Nott and Malfoy bowed their heads in submission. It was good that they knew where they were in their ranks. If ever Tom saw any of them stray, it would be easy to track them down. 

“Get me the information I need. The first to do so will be rewarded,” and with one last look, Tom turned to leave. The meeting was over and Collins wasn’t helping anyone at the moment. Abraxas had been very quiet and Nott was once again being self-righteous. The night felt wasted.

Tom could be considered very patient when it came to biding his time - to reach his goals. But as his birthday neared and a year passing, Tom’s patience was quickly thinning. His mug of the hot chocolate was forgotten and would’ve been cold by now anyways. It seemed that he might have to leave the school if no progress had been made.

Professor Hayes was no one of importance, it was too easy to pick her off. Sir Riddle Sr. was someone else entirely. He was respected by most quaint little towns and would certainly be causing more commotion than Hayes.

Abraxas caught up with Tom, only rushing as Tom had longer strides than Malfoy. The other two bumbling fools weren’t there and had gone to their respective dorm rooms.

“My aunt has formed a friendship with Sir Riddle Sr.”

That had to be the best news Tom had ever heard in the past few months. Abraxas’s eyes gleamed brightly. No doubt that he had thought of this way before Collins had suggested. Tom felt proud of Abraxas and himself, for choosing such a useful ally.

“Well done, Abraxas,” Tom smiled. “I want to meet your aunt.”

Abraxas fidgeted. “Well, my aunt does not actually know my motives for making her befriend the Lord. She thought that it was because I am on rather good terms with your father and you him. Not to mention, she’s already seen you once. I think that was one of the reasons why she was eager to help me.”

Tom raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You told her he was my father when he does not even acknowledge me? Rather disappointed with your cover story.”

Abraxas visibly deflated from his slight moment of victory. But Tom just had to make do with the situation.

“No matter,” Tom said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ve done well and I will think of how to make this as beneficial as possible if she  _ does  _ know Sir Riddle Sr. is my father. Carry on whatever you were doing. If you see Collins or Nott, please refrain yourself from gloating. You will be rewarded in due time.”

It was good that Abraxas was a man of his word, or else Tom would’ve had to threaten the blonde as well. “Yes Tom.” he left to go to their common room. Tom had somewhere else he needed to be at tonight.

It would do no good to have Collins, Nott or the others knowing that Abraxas had striked where Tom needed the most. If they knew, then they would slack off and not do their work properly. And Tom  _ wanted _ more intel. He  _ needed _ them to execute his plan flawlessly. Murdering a public figure was harder than murdering a middle-aged cougar.

He walked around a bend, his school blazer doing little to nothing against the cold from the stone walls. Hogwarts happened to be the only place where Tom felt as if it was home - but there could definitely be some improvements.

The name, for one. What kind of posh school was named ‘Hogwarts’? It was hardly flattering. And a castle? Extravagant, but the castle was rarely tended to. A shame, really. Some of the staff members needed to be changes; for example, Professor Binns. Horribly boring and droned on about useless facts. Tom used to think History was an interesting subject, but he needn’t hear about the First World War over three years course.

Tom stopped his musing when he came in front of his destination.

In his first year over at Hogwarts, there was a girl one year up above him. She loved how he looked and was as shallow as a small basin. Tom was attractive enough for her fancy and he didn’t mind because she was a beacon of potentially influential allies next to the Malfoys. And this year happened to be her last year at Hogwarts.

Three sharp raps at the door signified that Tom was on the other side, waiting for Camilla to let him in.

He saw her sultry red smile first before her dark eyes. Her black hair tumbled freely down one shoulder and she wore her usual uniform. Her tie was loosened, two buttons opened at the collar and her skirt hitched up higher, exposing more legs than Tom thought necessary. It wasn’t as if she was interested in men anyways. He didn’t understand why she needed to dress so provocatively when she does nothing but talk business with Tom.

That was why Tom kept her, along with her being a magnificent source of an ally. She was her own boss, her own Goddess in her own world. Camilla had power and her gender did nothing to define where she stood. In fact, she used anything she owned as a hand in what she wanted to achieve. Tom could definitely see her leading and holding her own.

“Come in, Tommy-boy.”

Tom despised that nickname more than he despised his father. And he hated his father quite a lot.

“Camilla, how are you doing this fine night?” Tom brushed the disgustingly childish name calling aside in matters of business.

“Oh plenty fine,” she giggled. “Remember Jacqueline Hudson?”

Tom nodded and waited for her to elaborate. But she only smiled before shrugging, turning to sit in one of the chairs around the girl’s lounge. It always baffled him how Camilla was able to smuggle Tom inside without her fellow females not telling a teacher or something, but it turns out they just don’t care.

It also helped that Camilla was the leader of her pack and Tom’s heard from the whispering of confused girls that she was an excellent coercer. He didn’t want to know details of how she coerced girls, but he could only imagine. No. Tom did not want to imagine either.

“So,” she started, waving her arm to allow Tom to sit. “I’ve been doing some sightseeing this past few weeks with my family, just around England and its outskirts. Did you know there’s this little restaurant down in Winchester where they served the best wines? Oh Tommy, darling, I swear by you that they could take up the French; actually, no. I think the owners were French, that might explain a lot. Anyways, what was I saying?”

“You were touring around England and this will somehow correlate to my mission.” Tom gave.

“Ah, yes. I was with my brother in Richmond, we were about to see a play - you should see some plays with my brother and I around the summer - when there were the most intriguing pieces of news floating around. Have you heard? No, of course not. Nothing really comes in Hogwarts at a fast rate. Well, there had been some sightings of Sir Tom Riddle Sr. around there.

“And then we saw Riddle Sr. once again, around Wandsworth in the London Borough. They were only snippets, but an over-eager old lady had told us all the goss. Oh Tommy-boy, you would not believe your luck.” she grinned, her white teeth against red lips.

“Apparently, Riddle Sr.’s gone round the bend. Very private information, but that old hag was all but telling us all these. He didn’t want to go to a hospital so he had some medications shipped over from the Russians; bloody Soviets, you know? You should start looking into powerful sleeping pills.”

Tom understood what she meant instantly. He didn’t need to plan an elaborate accident. All he needed was to poison, maybe temper with the man’s consumables and ensure that it wouldn’t be able to be traced back to him nor anybody else. It’d be blamed on whatever medications Riddle Sr. had been given.

“What do you think some of these pills are?”

“I thought you might ask that, so I had my papa tell me some things - you know how he is, very excited to have little Camilla interested in his line of work. He wrote them down,” she brought a folded piece of paper from somewhere inside her shirt and gave it to Tom. 

“Most of the things there are Benzodiazepine types of drugs; sedatives, minor tranquilizers. The ones underlined are the dangerous ones. Did you know that these ones,” she tapped onto the underlined names, “are muscle relaxants? Stays in your system for 60-hours plus. Catatonic when taken with alcohol.”

Camilla sat back, flipping her hair from her shoulder. “I talked to Sir Riddle Sr. Such a gent, Tommy, I have to say. I don’t understand how you are even related to him; he’s a sweetheart and you’re just cold. While we were talking, he mentioned that he had an appreciation for brandy - Armagnac, try Cerbois Bas. A little Armagnac based cocktail never hurt anyone either.”

“And what do you suggest I should have introduced to him?” Tom arched an eyebrow.

“Vieux Carré.”

“Camilla,” Tom patted her folded knee, his eyes taking down the list possessively. “You have done very well. You shall be rewarded.”

Her face was smug. “Keep your side of the bargain when you reach your goal, Tom. We’ll keep in touch.”

Of course they would. Tom wasn’t a fool and he would not be letting Camilla go any time soon. She was too valuable to lose, as was Abraxas who had gotten him first-hand contact with his father.

Tom had a story forming in his mind. Abraxas’s aunt would see the obvious resemblance between him and Sir Riddle Sr., then she would ask questions. Tom needed to say a few flattering words and charms before she completely fell for him - he had that effect on people due to his looks. Then, he would tragically mention how his father did not want him.

Boo hoo, a sob story and there. She would want to know Tom’s father more and persuade the man to form a bond with Tom. Since his personality was obviously from his mother’s side of the family, poor Riddle Sr. wouldn’t know what hit him when Tom became the perfect heir for him. And maybe he’d get accepted into the family.

Riddle Sr. was not married, not since Tom’s mother. In fact, he didn’t think Riddle Sr. was really over his mother’s death or the misdeeds that ensued to conceive Tom.

But Tom didn’t want a father - he wanted his father’s fortunes. Tom was as good as an adult, maybe even better. He had been keeping his followers in line, he’d been writing and deciding the fates of who encounters him. He’d gotten stronger, taller, more handsome and dashing. Tom wanted to get out of this school and go search for Harry already.

If Riddle Sr. knew what was best for him, then he would cooperate and sign over everything to Tom straight away. At the time of his death, Tom would automatically become legal Lord over all their assets straight away - no delays.

As Riddle Sr. health was beginning to deteriorate, Tom would casually slip him the ‘wrong testing pills’. The blame would be pinned on whatever institute gave him those. Chemically imbalanced pills were easy enough to duplicate as long as Tom knew what compounds were inside of the medications. Or he could write the wrong prescription.

It was the perfect set up! Tom did this. He, once more, felt like a God amongst his own.

He needed to get into contact with Abraxas’s aunt very soon and get Nott to call over an expert. He wanted to make the incorrect pills himself. Tom wanted to be the decider of his father’s miserable life and hear the news declare what a horrible accident it was to have the noble Sir Riddle Sr. dead because of a pill mixed with spirits.

Suddenly, the night didn’t seem very wasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing: Camilla! Her father's based off of my mother because my mother's actually the one who told me information about Phenazepam, they're lethal legal drugs so they're not so far of a reach. She also contributed to the scheming of Professor Hayes's disposal (Professor Hayes is based off my actual maths teacher) and how bodies decay (She's a doctor)  
> If anything, we all should be thanking my mother for such helpful input (She doesn't know what I use the info for and she keeps on telling me murder is bad). Anyhoo, I will be on hiatus for a while. This is the last chapter I will post before the Christmas special! Stay tuned for that! And I hope y'all have a happy Christmas. Thank you for all your support and love - I'm going to cry now.  
> Drop me a DM on my IG - @a.notter


	9. Are Your Relatives the Malfoys?

Chapter Nine

Are Your Relatives the Malfoys?

 

It took him a while before he realised that Mallory wasn’t treating him as just a friend.

Dense as he was, he couldn’t let the lingering stares, the flirtatious remarks nor the alarming increase of skinship be ignored. He hated being touched and could only tolerate so much. He was fine with Mallory or Parkinson hugging him; just as long as they gave him a word of warning first. Harry was also not fond of eye contact; but he was fine if it was Mallory or Parkinson because they helped him heal over time.

But sometimes, when you had too much of a connection to another, it could be perceived and moulded into something else. And that something else would be flattering if it were not traumatising and horrifying to Harry.

Harry didn’t like that. Strangely, Harry had given up on the notions of ‘love’. He never really believed it as a child, he didn’t have enough tangible evidence that would convince him that love existed. There were only desires and mutually beneficial trades developed between a relationship.

Harry had the desire of company, of friendship, and therefore he created a bond between Hermione and Ron, and they reciprocated that bond. It was hard to explain, but ever since the death of his godfather, he’d given up on his desire to be loved and resigned to the fact that what most people felt weren’t love - they were desires.

Mallory had that same look in his eyes, ones milder than Tom’s, but were the same nevertheless.

His pale eyes raked the same way as Tom’s once did, but they were kind and heated. They weren’t cold, predatory or insane. And Harry felt bad. He felt as if he was leading Mallory on, when Harry was unfortunately very broken and cannot see Mallory the same way as he saw Harry. He just… couldn’t.

Even if Harry did feel the same way, what Mallory wanted, he couldn’t give. Mallory would want deep kisses, surprised hugs and innocent pecks on their cheeks that Mallory had always expressed was so ‘unbelievably cute and romantic’. 

Harry couldn’t give Mallory sex without Harry freezing, or crying, or thrashing about - sometimes all three. Harry couldn’t give Mallory anything that were intimate; couldn’t give anything expected out of a relationship.

There was something repulsive about desire, about an orgasm, about the whole act of sex. It was disgusting to Harry. He hated the sinful pleasure that washed over him when he stroked himself. And he only did the act because he had to. It was a health hazard for a male to  _ not _ masturbate and release.

But he supposed he had to be grateful Mallory wouldn’t take Harry without his consent. Unlike Tom bloody Riddle.

“Hey, Harry, you alright?”

Speak of the Devil. Mallory made his way to sit down beside Harry on the sofa, crossing his ankles and blatantly draping his arm behind Harry’s seat. He had a glass in his hand, the contents a deep burgundy. Mallory had a thing for red wine.

“You seemed a little keyed-up,” offering the wine in his glass to Harry. “A little something to buzz you up, perhaps?”

“Oh, no,” Harry declined. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. Been a long day.”

“So, why did you call me? Is it about your friends who were coming over?”

Harry brightened up, momentarily forgetting Mallory’s interests and remembering why he was sitting in Mallory’s living room in the first place.

“That’s right, my friends; Hermione and Ron. I wanted to tell you this because I think that they’re coming over roughly the same time as your relatives. It’s been three years and Christmas seemed like a great idea for a reunion. I was wondering if perhaps, you’d like to come join for our Christmas party? You can invite your relatives, of course. And their friends, too.”

“Oh really?” Mallory smiled. “Have you invited Pansy yet?”

“I called her earlier in the week.”

“So you invited Pansy before me?” there was a teasing slight in Mallory’s voice, something that made Harry flush and recoil all at the same time.

“Well, I needed to know if you were alright with your relatives first.”

Mallory chuckled, his arm slipping down for the back of the seat and onto Harry’s shoulders. He pulled Harry in tightly before letting go and resting his arm around Harry. “Yeah, they’ll be fine with this. In fact, my little cousin had said that he knew you - well, to an extent.”

“Really? Harry’s a pretty common name, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew any other Harry.”

“He knew you by ‘Professor Potter’. You were a teacher back in England, right? My father used to study at Hogwarts. But I never did - went to Durmstrang, then Ilvermorny.” Mallory said. “Apparently you were very well respected back in Hogwarts. The students were devastated to have you gone.”

Harry had frozen over, he could only half-listen to what Mallory was saying. There were the rushing of blood in his ears. Somebody knew him through ‘Professor Potter’, the very title that got him harder to breathe.  _ At least they knew you as a teacher, _ Harry reasoned with himself, smiling nonchalantly at Mallory as he chattered on,  _ they didn’t know you as Harry. _

Only Tom would know Harry as Harry. There were no-one else, no student of his, who would go about calling him by his given name.

Then the puzzles clicked into place. Harry looked hard at Mallory; looking at the way his hair was so familiarly pale; observing the way his pale eyes were familiar, but different because they had flecks of blue amongst the grey. Mallory was cloudy days, mysterious gazes and the warmth of the sun. He had a distinct smirk upon his lips and a trademark sneer that Harry swore he’d seen before.

And he  _ had. _ He didn’t understand how he’d been so blind all this time. He shouldn’t have missed the pale, aristocratic features, or the towering height. He shouldn’t have missed the drawl that Mallory sometimes used or his incredible sarcasm. He only knew one student who was so familiar to Mallory that it made his heart clench.

_ Abraxas Malfoy. _

Mallory was related to the Malfoys. Harry should’ve known!

“... and Pansy’s said to me, and I quote from her: ‘strictly liking girls does not mean I’m a lesbian. I just have class.’ As if liking men meant no class!”

Harry had to agree with Pansy. Tom had been his only experience, and he was a downright pig about it. “Well, that does tend to happen.” Damn, his voice was too shaky. He shouldn’t have connected the dots while in the midst of a conversation. “Men are, for the most part, an arse when it comes to it.”

“I’d say.” Mallory rolled his eyes. “But I wouldn’t be like that.”

It was probably because of his attitude; Mallory was laid back and not too strict on his appearances around Harry, but once he was outside, he put up a lot of charming masks. Or perhaps his personality; Mallory was kind and warm and reminded Harry of home, of damp grass and lazy afternoons underneath the shade of a tree.

Mallory was nothing like Malfoy when their personalities were compared.

“Draco,” Harry turned so he was facing Mallory, his right curled up underneath him, “are your relatives, by any chance, the Malfoys?”

“Yeah!” Mallory brightened. “I knew my cousin was lying when he said you wouldn’t remember him.”

Harry smiled weakly. Abraxas reminded him of Tom and that leads to bad memories. Harry could  _ never _ forget about Tom and his associates; not completely. “How could I not?” he said softly. “He was one of my best students after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLAGIARISM.  
> I had a user tell me in my comments that a chapter of a work was eerily the same as my second chapter of the rape scene. At first I thought "well, I'm not original, so I can't blame them" but when I read the actual work and they had copied my rape scene WORD BY WORD. The only thing they bothered changing were the names and omitting sentences that would not correlate to their plot.
> 
> This makes me mad and hurt. I'm not a very good author. I suffer from bad grammars, poor English (as it is not my first language) and I'm awful at creative tasks. Please understand that many more of us authors (for the most part) try our hardest to make our works enjoyable to read and have somebody else copy it without the original authors knowing is hurtful and, in my case, pretty discouraging.  
> Not to mention that when I did confront them, all they did was "Oh! It was for inspiration!" And then they 'credited' me after I did call them out. Plagiarism is not the same as inspiration.
> 
> So I'm really sorry if this chapter seemed half arsed - that's because I had trouble wrapping my head around this and I know that's not an excuse, but when something like this happens... You kinda get reluctant to post anything else.


	10. A Question of Loyalty

Chapter Ten

A Question of Loyalty

 

“What is he to you?”

Tom stopped short. Clearly he was shocked, but his mask and stance refused to tell otherwise. Shocked did not look good on him and so he eradicated the expression years ago. Only that old goat Dumbledore had really managed to put that face on Tom; and he was just eleven then.

“Have I not told you?” his eyes narrowed menacingly.

Abraxas clenched his fist, torn between fear and determination. Why? Because Abraxas had become Tom’s confidant, that was why. Had he not proved that he wasn’t a mindless, power-thirsty fool like Lestrange or a sycophant like Nott? Abraxas was a pure follower through and through.

“We are friends, Tom.” His voice gave no way to the emotions he felt. “Do you categorise me with the likes of your other Knights?”

“Do you think otherwise?” Tom said, his voice equally cool.

Abraxas breathed in heavily. “Damn it, Tom! Why can’t you just tell me? You know I’d keep a secret of yours to my grave and beyond.  _ You know  _ -”

“Yes. I know you would. You seem like the type who’d keep a secret just because it makes you feel special.” The sneer that accompanied Tom’s voice was degrading. “But the question lies: why are you so adamant on finding out about my motives? Why must you know about mine and his history? Why is it so important to you?”

“We’re friends -”

“That’s  _ not _ a reason.”

“I have been loyal to you. I have been the most loyal Knight and your friend through all these years. I deserve to know if you are going to use me to get to him. My need to know is justified. It is my service that you require and I just think it fair that I know.”

Tom stepped closer to Abraxas, using his slight height advantage to use. He had a feeling that even if Tom wasn’t taller than him, he would still be intimidated by the other.

“Let me get this clear. You claim to be loyal, yet you must have a reason - this  _ urge _ to sate your curiosity - or you’ll… what? Cancel my plane ticket? The deed is done, I know where Harry is and I have enough money in my vaults to buy my own ticket.”

He surveyed Abraxas with chilling garnet eyes. The Malfoy heir seemed to have thought he could get away with questioning Tom’s want to retrieve his most prized possession; Harry Potter. Every word Tom said was true, he could just buy his own ticket because he knew  _ exactly _ where Harry was. But that would delay him another day. Another day that he simply could not afford.

Abraxas had a sneer on his face, but there was too much fear on his features to consider anything but pathetic. Tom decided to be kind and share (whether what he shared was important or no did not matter).

“Well, dear loyal friend of mine,” - he said in a positively sweet yet sharp tone - “I shall indulge you; Harry is simply my lover and I have come to meet him.”

Tom could see that his fair haired friend was turning the cogs in his empty head. There it was. The face of shock, fear and understanding.

“What? Were you expecting something else even though I’ve told you the truth?” Tom interrupted his thinking. “Tell me, do you still believe that you are my most loyal, Abraxas? Do you still think that you are my most faithful when all you’ve done is doubt me?”

“I don’t doubt you.”

“Liar.”

Abraxas visibly swallowed. His eyes shifted for a little bit and his nose flared from the rush of exhales.

“Did you not think I would not hear about your snooping about while I plan this whole thing?” Tom stalked around Abraxas, looking every bit like a calm predator circling around its prey. “Yes,” he breathed. “I know.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Hear that? That’s the sound of Lestrange telling me why my travel files had been shifted about. You think you’re so  _ smart _ and  _ capable _ of digging through my past. You think that you’ve done a good job at covering your tracks. Tell that to Crabbe and Goyle. Did you really think you could  _ buy _ their silence? They are not loyal to you, Malfoy. They are to me.

“Even that damned Black did not hesitate to tell me why my financial records had been shifted through.” Toms stopped his prowling, holding Abraxas by his shoulders. “But maybe that was partly my fault. I am sorely disappointed my records could be found so easily and by the likes of you. I will have to replace my people straight away.”

Abraxas took a stuttering breath in. “I will replace them.”

“Of course you will.” Tom clucked his tongue. “How’d you think you were going to make up for your lack of faith in me? A word of advice, Abraxas, never doubt me. I may find myself questioning your loyalty.”

Abraxas let out a breath he had unconsciously held in as Tom left.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _ He shouldn’t have been so meddling. He should’ve believed Tom’s words when he said he was going for a visit. He shouldn’t have thought that there was more to it. But with Tom… with the murders they’ve done… it was hard to not believe there was more to it.

_ Dispel your thoughts, _ Abraxas scolded himself.  _ Believe in him. Believe in Tom. _

How disappointing. This was why Tom did not like people much. If they couldn’t do anything right, it was better that you did it yourself. Abraxas had been one of his most trusted Knights and what did he do? Fucking Malfoys and their incessant need to be special - to be dubious when they don’t know everything.

Why was it that without Harry, Tom was always feeling disappointed? Since young he had been in the same state. Even Harry had disappointed him once by not obeying what he said. There was a fine line between playful defiance and outright irritating behaviour. And Tom was not one for inefficiency. He did not do action for the purpose of action - no.

How Tom had longed to hold Harry again. To push inside of him and feel his love imprinted deeply into Harry. He missed Harry with a passion, but the closer the date he was going to find him, the more impatient Tom became. It did not soothe him to have to wait two more weeks before he was once again reunited with his Harry.

He can only hope that none of his other Knights would be as disillusioned as Malfoy was. Tom wouldn’t want to let go of getting to Harry after all. He doubted Harry would want to wait for too long either.

Fate (though he didn’t really believe in Fate) had brought them together and Destiny (though he didn’t believe that either) wanted them to be with each other for the end of time. Why else would Tom had found Harry through Abraxas and his information of going to Australia to visit his cousin. Who knew that said cousin would be neighbours with lovely Harry?

It was meant to be. Harry was meant to be his and his alone. And the same goes for Tom. Tom was Harry’s and Harry’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my previous rant. Have another chapter!  
> Hear those bells? That's the sound of Christmas coming up. I've written it and I have the impulse to just post it but then it won't be as special anymore and I like things that are special. Have you heard of the suicide of a k-pop star, Jonghyun of SHInee? I just recently found out from my kpop fan cousin. Rest in peace, I hope he had a good life before it led up to that moment.  
> Anyways, I'll be gone for awhile from today until Sunday. So if I don't update until like, 00:00 of the 26/12/2017, then I apologise. Indonesia has been treating me well and I have realised that talking about the eventful joys of christmas mixed with my great vacation does not make the announcement of SHInee's Jonghyun's death very sincere. I'm sorry. Have a good one.


	11. Of Friends and Foes

Chapter Eleven

Of Friends and Foes

 

Meeting Hermione and Ron again had got to be the best day of his life and easily the highlight of his week. He met them at Sydney Airport, waiting at the International Arrivals not so patiently. And why should he be patient? He had been on a rather low profile and never checking in with anybody over in London. He missed his best friends.

“Excited, Harry?”

Mallory had come with, offering to help Harry in return for Harry to help him when his own relatives came (which was in about two days from Ron and Hermione). Harry, always the one to take up on an offer to help, didn’t so much as hesitate. Even if Mallory’s relatives _were_ the Malfoys. It wasn’t if Abraxas would really do anything with Harry. They were still strangers after all.

“Of course, Draco. I’m bloody pissin’ my pants. Can’t believe that they’re coming out so soon!” despite his remark, he still bristled. “Where the hell are they?”

“I sometimes wonder how you became a teacher with language like that.”

“Wait, no, alright. I have different modes. I’m in friend mode now, off the clock me is different to ‘Professor Potter’. Besides -” Harry was swiftly interrupted by a loud bellow in the relatively calm airport.

“HARRY!”

“RON!”

He collided painfully with his friend, not once flinching at the contact nor the tight embrace. Harry heard Ron laugh in his ear and let go of him, patting his shoulder with more force than necessary.

“Hermione,” Harry said around a grin.

“Hey Harry,” she opened her arms - a familiar gesture to Harry - and he hugged her, lifting her off her feet. Harry buried his face into the bushy hair of his friend and smelt the faint vanilla scent of hers. Ron and Hermione smelt like home.

“Nice to see you too, Harry.” Hermione positively beamed. She wrapped her arms firmly onto his neck before he put her down again.

Harry stood there, unwinding himself from Hermione, but not quite letting her go yet. It felt surreal. His friends were once again with him and he was even more giddy. They were staying for a little over four weeks. Not much time, but enough for him to curb he homesickness he'd harboured for three fucking years.

Her brown eyes flickered over Harry’s shoulder and she did a little cough.

“Oh right,” Harry stumbled. “This is Draco Mallory. He's my friend. Draco; this is Hermione Granger and this is Ronald Weasley.”

“The infamous Hermione and Ron. I've heard a lot about you two.” Mallory held out his hand, offering them to Harry’s friends.

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione replied and Ron followed suit, though he only nodded with a smile.

“How was the flight?” Harry asked.

“Bloody tiring. My bum’s sore from all the sitting. You know what? ‘Mione here decided we should take one flight after the other; literally, after we got down from one plane, we went to the international exchange gates and boarded onto another plane!” Ron gestured wildly with his hands.

“Alright, Ronald. I was just excited to meet Harry again.” She looked particularly abashed, but that abated as soon as she turned on Harry again. “How’s life in Australia? It’s a little weird not seeing snow here - or rain, for that matter.”

It felt right having Ron and Hermione back. Mallory contributed to the unique Australian culture and his want to know more about how England was. Harry’s friends were getting along nicely and he couldn’t help but sigh out of contentment. He really did miss his two very best friends.

Hermione walked a little slower, falling back next to Harry as Ron and Mallory went ahead to get the car. She turned around, giving Harry her full attention and there was something a little… forlorn about her downcast eyes.

“How are you feeling, Harry?”

He _could_ say that he was fine, he could’ve lied and said that he’d recovered very well. But the thing was… he wasn’t. Not at all.

It had come to his attention that sometimes, very rarely, he found himself _missing_ his life back in London - even the part where his favourite student had defiled him and left him torn. He missed it back in Hogwarts, he wanted to go back because although he liked it here, he couldn’t bring himself to actually want to settle.

“I… It’s complicated,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “I can’t say that my life’s been smooth sailing, there’s always been a bump on the road, but it was better than staying, I suppose.”

“I can see that your new friend has been a good influence on you.”

Mallory _was_ a good influence. He was a little complicated, but being with him was as easy as breathing. Harry was sure that if he had not been so completely put off at the idea of engaging in sexual romances, he would’ve returned Mallory’s feelings wholeheartedly.

“But you’re scared, aren’t you?” Hermione observed. She tilted her head, her kind eyes boring themselves into the dulled orbs in Harry. “You’re frightened.”

 _About what?_ But before he could ask, Ron had already hollered for both Hermione and Harry to hop on the car. Mallory blasted music through the radio, laughing at a previous joke Ron must’ve cracked. It was a good look, his friends getting along.

He never did question why Hermione would think Harry was scared.

 

* * *

 

Australia was hot and dry.

Tom was glad that the inside of the building was properly air-conditioned and sheltered from the afternoon sun. Honestly, if this was Australia’s way of a fun time, Tom was very dubious on it. Not to mention, Australia happened to have a massive hole in their skies resulting in ridiculously high UV rays. Tom had no desire to get skin cancer any time soon. Especially not when he hadn’t his time with Harry yet.

But, he had to appreciate the place though. Sunny as it was, he could see the appeal of living here. And he could see why Harry had chosen such a country. Sydney was bustling, hot and full of people from multicultural backgrounds. It was like a hotter, more dry version of London. Without all the trash on the sidewalk. Nor the rude honks of car horns.

Not to mention, Australia’s sunny outlook was a lot like his Professor Potter. Polite, kind and hot. Almost unbearably so. It made Tom think of things not wholly appropriate seeing as he was surrounded by the Malfoys.

Mrs. Malfoy, bless her, had been such a good host. She had planned to stay at a different hotel to her darling nephew, but after Tom’s expressed opinion (persuasion), she thought it made more sense to be in the same hotel. After all, Draco Mallory was still a Malfoy as well. He had Malfoy blood and would not settle for anything less, especially when it came to his own comfort.

“Come on, Tom,” Abraxas sidled up to him, looking out for something. “We’ve got hired people taking care of our luggage. We can leave.”

“Splendid. Will your cousin be picking us up?”

“Yes, with the accompaniment of Professor Potter.”

Tom smiled, albeit a little ferally. “Does he know I’m coming?”

“He knows of an additional guest coming, but not of who you are.”

“Excellent, you’ve proven yourself to be a loyal Knight, Abraxas. I shall reward you.” Tom swept out the air-conditioned space and walked over to where two automatic sliding doors were, indicating the outside.

“Thank you, Tom.”

Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had already waited outside. Well, ‘waiting’ wasn’t quite the right word as Tom distinctly remembered that Malfoys do not wait, rather they were lounging about with another pale-as-fuck man, tall with white blonde hair. The Malfoys were notorious for the blonde hair, pale skin and pale eyes. But Draco looked a little different, his eyes, for one, were not icy-blue but grey.

Abraxas legitimately liked his cousin very much, as he rushed to embrace Draco in a tight hug. They both could pass as brothers, seeing as how familiar they both looked. But Draco in a t-shirt did not exactly paint the same image as his cousin, who was in a polo shirt.

However, Draco was not the one who he was looking out for. Disappointment, yet again, filled him as he realised that his Harry wasn’t beside the blonde man.

“Hi! You must be Abraxas’ friend,” Draco pulled his hand out.

With a firm grip, Tom took it. “Yes, hello. My name’s Tom. You must be Draco Mallory. Abraxas has told me lots about you.”

“All good things, I hope.” He said through a grin.

 _It used to be, but I think all of Abraxas’ talk was rubbish._ Because he couldn’t see his Harry anywhere.

“Excuse me, I’ll be in the loo.”

Tom made his escape. He needed to get out of the way with those albino snobs and start to calm himself. Just because his Harry wasn’t here yet, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to meet him in the hotel. There would be _no_ escape from Tom in the hotel because Harry was far too polite to abandon his friend and rumour has it that Harry had also brought his own friends along.

Tom was sharing a room with Abraxas. When he said sharing, he meant it was a double suite and had a wall seperating where they slept because, though he wasn’t overly worried about sleeping in the same space as Abraxas since he _had_ slept with many more boys in Hogwarts since it was a boarding school, he thought that Abraxas would appreciate it if he didn’t witness Harry being claimed once more by Tom in their passionate love-making.

He ignored the group of girls who looked like they just got out of college and were boarding on the next plane to anywhere that wasn’t Australia. They stared at him with their not-so-secretive glances towards each other, giggling behind their covered mouths and shuffling to near him.

Unbelievable, these girls were. All long-haired and shallow. They wouldn’t know Tom like how Harry would. But it didn’t hurt to know that he was well received by others - not that he needed the validation.

He needed to have cigarettes. It was a very bad habit he’d picked up from the age of seventeen, when the reality of how far away Harry was from him had settled in and seemed very hopeless. He didn’t resort to drugs, but he thought that alcohol and nicotine had the same potential to kill him very effectively if used liberally.

Tom never stopped though. It was stressful, wanting to hold another body but not trusting any others and only desiring, lusting, _loving,_ the only person who’d slipped by the cracks of his fingers like water. What had he done wrong? He supposed he just needed to keep an extra close eye on his Harry. He would cherish him forever, shower him with love and gifts and never part from his side.

And he crashed into somebody.

“Oh, sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going and -”

Seeing the person in real life was more amazing than what Tom had remembered. Pictures and memories did nothing to serve the true beauty that was Harry Potter. It was like seeing colours for the first time, like taking a deep breath after asphyxiation.

With his beautiful honey skin, the glow of his verdant eyes, the inky blackness of his messy hair; Harry looked as wonderful as he was when Tom was only fourteen. Harry’s cherry red lips parted in a small ‘o’ and his hands shook.

Tom, with a huge grin, wrapped his arms around his Professor, feeling the heat from the other man and could not help but to inhale the sweet, woodsy smell of Harry.

“Harry,” he breathed. “Harry, I have looked for you everywhere.”

 _How could this be?_ Harry thought. His limbs were frozen in time, his eyes wide and disbelieving. _How could he have found me? How?_ Tom, with his sickeningly familiar smell, and his same strong hold around Harry, had found him out of all of the places Harry could’ve gone. But how?

Tom pulled back, his garnet gaze piercing Harry and it felt like he was being skewered and undressed in the middle of the airport, just in front of the toilets. Tom’s pink lips tilted up into a smile and Harry wanted to cry out in despair. Was it because of his friends? Had Tom somehow tracked Harry through his friends?

It was too much of a coincidence for Hermione and Ron to have arrived and then to bump into Tom two days later. Especially when he was going with Mallory to pick the Malfoys up.

_Oh no. The Malfoys._

He should’ve known. He should’ve done something to prevent it! He should’ve… he should’ve…. Tears fell from his lower lashes, too big to keep them there, and fell down his cheeks. Why was this happening to him?

And Tom, he reached up to wipe away Harry’s tears, mistaking them for something like tears of happiness. His cruel smile took over the sweetness and leaning close to Harry, he whispered in his ear;

“I'm rather disappointed with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The long awaited Reunion of Harry and Tom :O  
> I'm so sorry for not being able to post on Christmas or New Years! Please don't hate me, I was in a really bad spot and couldn't muster any creative thinking. I hope my English is improving and I was wondering if you guys would follow me on tumblr if I posted little snippets of my writing; I'm a tease, I know. You can tell me your feedback through comments and such!  
> Have a Happy 2018 guys, can you believe it? Would y'all also read any tomarry or drarry fics I might post in the future? Let me know in the comments!


	12. Lightning that Kissed Your Forehead

Chapter Twelve

Lightning that Kissed Your Forehead

 

It felt like dying time and time again, it always did.

Tom gripped Harry’s thighs, pushed it up all the way until they touched his chest and thrusted in further. His hands were bound by the leather belt that cut into his skin every time he pulled. His back felt the rough cloth burns from being fucked so hard that the bed literally moved, hitting the wall on every thrust.

Usually, Harry would be less mortified. He’d be horrified, but not to this point. Because at this point, he felt something that he hated, that disgusted him to a level of pain. He’d only felt this once in his thousand deaths, he swore to never have to feel this again.

_Pleasure._

He was finding pleasure in Tom’s ministrations. He felt the heat in his belly, quivering his muscles and his cock went rock hard. The body pressed against him felt wrong, yet so, so right all the same. He felt the tingle that went through his cock and spine every time Tom pressed against that spot in his arse.

Tom whispered sweet French nothings that Harry couldn’t understand, but they carressed against his ear. The low hiss and guttural of Tom’s voice saying things like:

_“J'ai envie de toi, Harry.”_

_“Tu me rends fou.”_

It was delightful, it was amazing, it was _fucking awful._ Harry hated and loved everything that went on. He hated the sounds, he hated the feeling, he hated the guilt of finding pleasure in an act he despised. He vehemently loathed the hot, pulsing, thick member that went in and out of him so sensually.

Yet he loved it all.

Tom was finding the pleasure tenfold as Harry unwittingly gasped, brokenly moaned, breathed so desperately in his ear. He absolutely _loved_ the way Harry’s eyes unfocused.

Harry wanted to shout, to alert someone that he was here and taken against his will. He wanted somebody - anybody - to hear him cry and help him. He liked hotels for not having security cameras inside of their rooms, but as of now, he condemned them. This particular room _should_ have cameras because he was being violated.

A mute cannot shout. A mute cannot make a sound. And Harry had turned mute from pure shock.

Tom, in all his glory, trailed a hand from Harry’s thigh and slipped it to his neck. He brushed his thumb against Harry’s pulse point. He’d only had ever gotten up close to one murder; Professor Hayes. And before he killed her, he felt her pulse point. He felt the steady beat underneath his fingers. He felt it stop, he felt her vacant neck, he felt the lack of life on her body.

But Harry was alive. He was positively thrumming with life, with unmistakable warmth, with struggles that a dead body lacked.

“Tom,” Harry sobbed, “Please, stop.”

Tom shifted his thumb from Harry’s pulse to the lump in his throat, feeling his Adam’s Apple bob. Then he pressed, lightly as to not cause actual damage. But Harry would still feel the pressure. He leant in closer to Harry, licking the side of Harry’s neck and kissing the wet spot.

“Shh, love. Let yourself feel.”

“No.”

“Feel,” Tom said, as he pressed further. Harry gasped, croaking under the slight abuse his throat was under. “Bad boys don’t get what they want. Tell me, Harry, why have you left? Why have you not told me of your… expedition?”

Harry felt Tom’s thumb press harder on his throat, now dragging it to the hollow of his throat.

“Answer me,” he commanded.

“I,” - he coughed a tiny cough. It was momentary but Tom eased up a little on his hold - “I was scared.”

“Scared?”

“Frightened,” Harry repeated Hermione’s words.

“What of? What were you scared of?”

“You,” he choked.

Displeased, Tom pressed harder, now wrapping both his hands firmly around Harry’s fragile neck. He had strengths unknown to Harry and if he choked Harry too hard, he was sure that his little lover would die. But still, he wanted to let Harry know that Tom was pissed off.

“Who? Me?” Tom gave with a harsh chuckled. “Oh Harry, you forget that I am the one with power here. You have no say in this.”

Hearing those words thrown back to him from when Tom was all but a sixteen year old… Harry grew mental.

_“Don’t you see Harry? You have no say in this.”_

Harry shuddered. Nineteen year old Tom was no better than sixteen year old Tom. In fact, he might’ve been worse.

Tom pulled out of Harry, leaving his hole gaping and clenching around nothing. His fingers left their bruises on Harry’s neck and travelled up his arms, to his wrists and the belt holding him there. He undid the belt. At a moment’s notice, Harry tried to scramble off the bed, he tried to escape. However, his legs were jelly and he couldn’t move fast.

Well, even if he _had_ full control over his body, Tom was faster, larger and stronger than he was. Harry had no chance from the beginning.

With a harsh grip in Harry’s hair, Tom pulled Harry up onto all fours.

“Listen to me carefully, Harry,” he narrowed his eyes in the brightly lit room. “You will suck me and you will enjoy it. Don’t you dare let your teeth touch me, or heavy consequences shall befall you.”

Harry bared his teeth, tear tracks dried on his red cheeks and his eyes shone. Tom loved the animosity he found in the glow of Harry’s verdant eyes.

“No, you monster,” Harry snarled, a little weak from the interference on his throat. Wrong move. It earned him a slap to the face and a painful yank of his hair.

“Remember Sir Riddle Sr.?” Tom brought up out of fucking nowhere. Harry’s eyes watered with newfound pain that was in no way laced with pleasure. Tom’s cock jutted out proudly, touching Harry’s right cheek and smearing lube and sticky precum onto his skin.

“Remember how in all the news it was said that he died?”

Perhaps it was because Harry knew Tom well, or maybe it was the menacing tone of his voice, but whatever it was, Tom needn’t spell it out for Harry to understand the message. Tom had killed his own fucking father. Harry was so _sure_ of it that his head hurt with the revelation.

“Get to it, Professor,” he said, so condescending and dripping with acid that it ate away at Harry. _“Suce-moi la bite.”_

Harry hadn’t a warning before Tom pulled on his hair once more and his mouth was molested with the taste of flesh. He choked on Tom’s cock, gagging around the wide girth and above average length. Tears ran down his eyes, onto his cheeks and rolled to his neck.

_“Ouh, Harry,”_ Tom began, his eyes shut and head thrown back. _“C’est bon, mon_ _chéri!”_

There was something so dirty about your younger ex-student shoving his cock down your throat, abusing it, and shouting things in French which Harry was going to assume profanities. Heavy guilt dropped down his stomach as he tried hard to not let his teeth touch any part of Tom. He shouldn’t be getting off on this, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t.

But he was only human, his teeth grazed Tom slightly, and the cock was out of Harry’s mouth. A finger replaced the member.

_“_ _Tu es trop coquin, Harry,”_ he purred. _“Tu m’excites.”_

He took the finger off and grasped his penis. Harry watched as Tom stroked it once, twice, three times, before brushing it lightly against Harry’s lips. The copious precum slathered themselves onto Harry’s lips.

“I will take out your teeth if it meant you do not touch me with them ever again, do you understand me, my Harry?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good.”

And Harry did not doubt each word from Tom’s mouth. Harry wrapped his teeth with his lips, keeping his jaws open for Tom to do as he pleased. More tears shed themselves. How debauched, how sullied, how dirtied must he become? How much more breaking down could he take before he dropped? How much longer would he keep his mouth wide open for Tom?

Tom fisted Harry’s hair with both hands, thrusting wildly in and out of Harry’s hot, wet mouth. It felt amazing. Each brush of Harry’s tongue against the underside of his prick sent mad tremors down to his legs and stomach. The palate at the top of Harry’s mouth created the perfect friction for his head before they nudged the back of Harry’s throat and caused him to shiver in the blinding brush of pleasant friction.

Used like a sex toy, Harry resigned himself to the moment. It hurt, his throat, his backside, his wrists. His cheek still felt the slight sting of Tom’s blow, his hair felt as if they were being uprooted all at once. And with a shout, Tom came.

_“Avale!”_ Tom cried. “Swallow me, Harry!”

It was unpleasant. The taste of semen in dollops was tangy, bitter, a little salty and a whole lot funky. The texture of it made Harry gag, but Tom had ordered him to swallow, so swallow he did. He let it slide the back of his throat (the deeper it went, the more that Harry could avoid having to actually taste it) and gulped it all down like his life depended on it, like he was actually _hungry_ for it.

Tom let go of Harry’s hair, letting him fall on the bed, exhausted and still achingly hard.

“Oh, would you look at that?” Tom panted. “You still have unfinished business.”

“I’m f-fine,” Harry croaked.

But Harry wasn’t fine for long. He thought Tom was done, he had his fun and would let Harry go. But no.

Once again, Tom regained all his strength in less than a minute, dragged Harry up the bed and made him lay down spread-eagled on the tangled sheets.

“What’re you doing?”

“We’re starting your punishment,” Tom said as he unzipped a black bag from next to the bed and came with handcuffs. “Got these from a friend ‘round here. Excellent, aren’t they?” Tom remarked. “Abraxas had given me such enormous help these past few years that I couldn’t help but to reward him.”

“I thought we were done.”

“Done?” he laughed. “Darling, we haven’t even _started.”_

_“What?”_

“A bird told me that you had made yourself quite the friend to a certain Draco Mallory. Tell me, Harry, have you been the faithful little slut that you are and kept your virtues to me?”

Harry couldn’t focus enough to answer as he tried to free his cuffed hands. Tom simply waved away his thrashing and cuffed his left ankle to one post of the bed. He struggled to breathe and to free himself.

“Draco was very taken with you, I could see the whole way back here. Unfortunate for him that I’ve set my eyes on you first. Don’t worry, _mon c_ _héri,_ I won’t hurt you - much.”

There was a knife that was somehow wielded in Tom’s deft hands. Harry thrashed even harder.

“No! NO! N-hmph! HMMPH!”

A cloth found its way into Harry’s mouth. Tom shoved it so far back that Harry began to choke on the ball.

“You might want to stay still, Harry. It won’t be my fault if I accidentally slip and marr your pretty face. Besides, all I’m going to do is mark you mine. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

He would mind very much.

“Oh, but you cannot speak. Haha! You don’t have a single say in this at all!” Tom said gleefully. “If only you had stayed. If only you’d’ve told me. Oh well, what’s done is done. Here we go, Harry. Do stay. Very. Still.”

Tom leaned over Harry, who was frozen as the tip of the knife glinted menacingly in the light.

The point pressed against Harry’s forehead. It was a tiny pressure, before it ripped down in a downstroke slash. The sting wasn’t light at all. It was agonising. Tears sprung up in Harry’s eyes and he screamed into the ball of cloth. Sweat broke out upon his brow.

Tom stopped, wiped some of the spilt blood and waited until Harry had reclaimed his breath. The erratic breathing and motions of his chest slowed down. Tom decided it was time for the new cut. Whatever erection that was in Harry had wilted away, leaving his soft prick under Tom's scrutinising glare.

Another tear in his skin, now horizontally and connected to the vertical cut, was made. Harry screamed harder as he felt the crisscross of a jagged end meeting the other. Then, another cut was made, this one going as far as his brow. Blood spilt into his eye and he shut it, the sting of blood was nothing against the red-hot fiery feeling of the wound on his forehead.

Tom looked down at his work. It wasn’t the best, a little sharp if he were to admit, but it was exactly what he wanted.

“You’re so beautiful, Harry.” He breathed.

Lips closed in on Harry’s painful gash, and Tom’s lips came away red.

His Harry and the little mark that signified of Tom’s ownership. The little lightning bolt on Harry’s pretty little forehead. It satisfied something wholly sadistic in Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, another chapter!  
> I didn't quite know how to proceed from my cliffhanger (I wasn't even aware it was a cliffhanger until I read the comments). So tell me if it sucks. I have a thing for Harry's lightning bolt scar and I wanted to have it here. I have also realised that the whole "Ooh, let's have big bad tom carve the fucking thing into Harry's forehead" is a massive cliche but I'm not that original and creative, so what can you do really?  
> I wanted to write some smut so this became my way of relieving that. I had like, a drarry PWP on the go, but then I remembered this fic existed lmao.  
> Also, comments, thank you so much for the kind words of encouragement! I love them and they keep me afloat. Keep 'em rolling because I have massive self-esteem issues and I hate myself haha!  
> Anyways, have a good day/night/evening/afternoon and I hope you liked it!


	13. I'm Sorry [My Last Parting Words]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please understand

Hello!

 

For some of you who had read my work and has waited patiently for an update, I'm so sorry.

Some time between when I last posted and today, something major happened in my life where it shifted a whole bunch of my _circumstances_ around. And believe me, I wouldn't do this if I absolutely had to. I just wanted you all to know that I had fun researching and writing this fic up to this point. Your comments kept me going and it was really one of the reasons why I even decided to keep going. Y'all gave me so much ideas and so much love that I can't help but to want to please y'all.

Unfortunately, due to real life circumstances, I cannot continue with this fic. I'll keep it up if y'all still want to re-read this fic or something, but please understand that I cannot keep updating this fic. Please do not send me death threats or angry emails/tumblr asks because I was doing my best and my best wasn't good enough.

Thank you for being so supportive. I hope you all will understand.

 

Love,

Snaxarba


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